Matryoshka
by mixed.vinyl
Summary: Half a year after their successful inception, Ariadne receives an offer of another job with the team, and just like the last time, she has no idea what she's getting into.
1. Chapter 1

Thank you to everyone who read, favourited and reviewed 'Oscillate'. You inspired me to write more and doodle less.

I don't own Inception, but Christopher Nolan does.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**_A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object _

* * *

**Chapter One**

The message comes out of the blue, long after she's stopped expecting it. It's been months since she's seen or heard from anyone, so long that she's started to wonder if it was ever real. She's even started to dream again. Still, the words are unmistakable, scribbled across the bottom corner of her graded blueprint – she'd lost only four percent, the highest mark in the class, for utter disregard of a conventional budget.

_7 pm. Same place._

It's definitely Professor Miles' handwriting; she can tell from the loopy tails of the _e_ and his determination not to look her way. She's puzzled by the words though. Unless her professor wanted to arrange a secret rendezvous with her, she's certain they're from Arthur or Eames. Maybe Yusuf. Not Cobb, too wrapped up in being a father again and definitely not Saito, who was only ever in it for his own business reasons. But why they want her is a mystery. They had always been in agreement that it was a one time thing, not a permanent job offer. And while she had entertained immediate hopes of being called back, seven months and twenty-two days of silence – not that she's been counting – has all but snuffed out that particular spark of hope. So it's with unbounded curiosity that she stands at the delivery entrance four and a quarter hours later.

The man who opens the door is handsome enough but, as she's always thought, in need of a good fifteen minutes with a mirror and a razor. Facial hair is not her thing. Nonetheless, she can't help the smile that tugs at her lips at the familiar sight of the forger.

"Mademoiselle Ariadne, how kind of you to join us. Comment ça va?"

"Ça va bien," she murmurs, wincing at Eames' atrocious accent. Typical British.

The warehouse is exactly as she left it, lawn chairs scattered across the cement floor, corners sectioned off for every team member. The handmade silk scarf she left on her desk is still there, gathering dust that she will no doubt never be able to clean off without the help of Mrs. Kim down the street. But at the moment she's more preoccupied with the three men lounging at the centre of the room.

Yusuf waves at her from his chair with one hand while a tube of God knows what distils in the other. Eames, of course, is as casual as ever, sprawled across his own seat. And Arthur, tipped back on two legs with his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, is probably the most casual she will ever see him. She can feel a wide grin coming up, but faced with this rather impassive trio, she hides it under guise of a cough.

"So…is this another job?" she asks, trying to sound as nonchalant as they look, when really, her insides are bubbling with excitement.

"Yes," Arthur replies simply, and she wonders yet again how he can always sound so damn calm. "Are you in?"

"I – Where have you all been the last seven months?" she blurts out. "You can't just waltz in after half a year of nothing and expect my unconditional help."

"Well, we would've loved to call darling, but as we've been busy convincing the authorities that the sudden amount of cash appearing in our bank accounts is absolutely legal, it would've looked a little suspicious if we all met for Sunday tea."

"Oh." She feels a little foolish. Most of her share of the money had gone directly to the university and rent. She had not thought of what grown men would do with extraordinarily large sums of money. Gamble? But she can't imagine Arthur, or even Yusuf, with a stack of poker chips.

"The point is," Arthur continues, snapping her out of her reverie, "we've got a job and we were wondering if you might be interested. Of course, if you're not-"

"No, no, I want to help," she interjects hastily. "What are we doing?"

"Extraction," he replies, pulling up a chair for her. "The mark's Michel Frechette."

She shoots up. "The architect?"

Arthur gives her one of his rare smiles. "Yes. That's why we thought you'd be interested. You can see how well you do fooling one of your own."

She sinks back in her chair, mind already buzzing with bridges and vaults. "Why?"

"Because dear little Michel is getting married," Eames answers. "To Carla Antonelli, no less, who happens to be the sole heiress to Antonelli Labs and the world's largest underground empire, although there's no proof of it, of course. And Daddy is getting a little worried by his future son-in-law's sudden cold feet."

Ariadne blinks, utterly confused. "I'm sorry, isn't this the kind of stuff people use therapists and marriage lawyers for?"

"Usually. But Frechette was raised by his godfather, who also happens to be in the…ah,_ medical_ business. Antonelli thinks he's using Frechette to steal some top secret formula his labs have just created."

"It's powerful stuff," Yusuf adds. "It would wipe cocaine off the market. You sell a few grams of it and you could retire comfortably on your own private island."

"Okay, let me get this straight." She tucks her hair behind her ears, trying to sort out the mess in her head. "Antonelli wants us to find out if Frechette is out to get his secrets or if he's just got pre-marital jitters?"

"He's completely bonkers, if you ask me. That Carla of his is the most boring, uptight chick I've ever had the misfortune to meet. I'd marry her off in a heartbeat. But yes, that's the general gist of the job."

"And what's he going to do if Frechette_ is_ trying to steal this formula?"

"That's up to him," Arthur tells her. "Our job is to find the secrets and hand them over."

"Right."

She's a little apprehensive about this point. In the Fischer job, no one had gotten hurt; in fact, life in general had become better for everyone involved. This time around, she has the nagging suspicion that if Frechette is revealed as a fraud, Antonelli will not be particularly lenient. Still, it's a job that someone has to do, and it's another chance to create a world full of illusions. There was nothing quite like it, as Arthur had told her so long ago.

"So what do you want me build?" she asks. "Some convoluted structure worthy of Frechette's own designs? Or maybe the ideal honeymoon, to play off his whole wedding thing. What?" she demands, for all three men are watching her with something akin to pity in their expressions, although in Eames, the sentiment looks like it's being suppressed by the urge to laugh.

"This job…It won't be simple," Arthur warns. "We'll need more than one layer."

She supposes that this makes sense; after all, Frechette is a genius architect, so he can probably spot a simple, one layer dream.

"Okay, so we can have both. That saves us having to choose."

"Ariadne, when I say it won't be simple, I mean it."

"What he means to say is that it will be damn near impossible," Eames interprets, and succeeds in receiving a stare from Arthur telling him to quit laughing in return.

Ariadne frowns, confusion gripping her brain. She feels like she's back in elementary school, when she was the only person who couldn't grasp the concept of the conditionnel passé. They're talking in concentric circles, getting ever closer to some vital piece of information that they won't give her without watching her suffer for it. Which she expects from a man like Eames, but she's always pegged Arthur as the chivalrous, 'my sword for thee, dear lady' type. Then again, he's had his moments with Eames.

"Frechette's been trained against extractors," Arthur tells her at last, although she suspects it's more from an intuitive need to spout information than any desire to relieve her suffering. "What bothers us is that we don't know who trained him."

"Is that important?" she asks, feeling a little dim and still not quite sure why they're all so worked up. They'd completed inception – wasn't this supposed to be just a shade easier?

"It's very important. Different extractors have different styles. If we know who taught Frechette, we'll be able to anticipate what his subconscious will do and adapt accordingly. The problem is none of my research even mentions that he's been trained, let alone who trained him."

She spots a gaping hole in his statement. "If the research doesn't show, how do you know he's been trained at all?"

"This is why it's going to be difficult," Yusuf answers. "We don't know, but we've got some pretty telltale evidence from Antonelli."

"He hired another team before he came to us," Arthur elaborates. "It didn't go so well for them."

"What happened?"

"They're still stuck in limbo," Eames explains, and for once, she can't spot the ghost of a smile on his face.

* * *

"This guy – Michel Frechette – he sent an _entire team_ into limbo with his subconscious?"

Ariadne wonders if the question is as stupid as it sounds to her ears. But she has to be certain she understood what the forger said. She casts her mind back to just over a year ago, when the famed French architect had come to the university to deliver a lecture on neo-classical structure. That had been the highlight of her time at the college, watching her idol scribbling away on the lecture hall's squeaky blackboard. Somehow, she can't connect the picture of the quiet, almost shy man to the guns blazing SWAT team that she now knows is his subconscious.

"Yes," Arthur replies simply.

She can tell that he's scrutinizing her reaction, looking for any signs of fear or anxiety that might jeopardize the job's completion. At the first sign of reluctance, she'll be sent packing home to her cubicle of a dormitory. This is her chance to prove that she's twice the architect that Cobb was, not least because no one has to worry about her dead wife popping in and out without so much as a telephone call ahead of time. Instinct tells her that if she aces this job or at least manages not to get herself killed too many times, her future is set. She won't have to worry about graduating without a job because being Arthur's architect definitely tops sitting in a cramped, windowless office designing artistic landfills for the rest of her life.

So she squares her shoulders and tries to stand a little taller. Height, she's heard, gives a look of confidence, which probably explains why Arthur and Eames always appear so sure of themselves. Then again, from her vantage point, it's hard not to seem so.

In any case, no one seems to have a problem with her confidence or height – or lack thereof – as Arthur hands her one of the manila files from his army, Yusuf returns to his toxic lab experiments and Eames simply sits there looking bored. She lets out a breath she doesn't even know she was holding. They approve.

"Some information about Frechette," Arthur explains as she weighs the file in both hands and wonders just how heavy his briefcase must be. "We got the call from Antonelli two days ago, so there's not much of a plan yet. But you should start thinking about what you might want to build."

"I've never seen that man do a single spontaneous thing in his life," Eames muses as the point man returns to his own desk. "He sounds like my high school English teacher. She was always going on about planning for the future too."

Ariadne bites her lip to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside her at the thought of an Arthur that did impulsive things. Like binging on ice cream. Something which, incidentally, she'd acquired from her own high school teacher.

"I always liked my English teacher," she replies.

Eames gives her a rather amused look whose meaning is as clear as mud. "You _would_ be the type to enjoy English, wouldn't you? Never had much patience for it myself." He pulls himself up from his chair, yawning loudly. "Well, I'm off to see if I can't worm myself into Frechette's office. I'll leave you English types to enjoy yourselves together. Don't have too much fun while I'm gone."

"What-"

But before Ariadne can ask him just what he means, he's slammed the warehouse door shut behind him. Deciding to save tackling Eames for he returns, she settles into a more comfortable position in the creaky lawn chair – they really need to invest in some proper furniture – a kitchen would be nice too – and opens Frechette's file.

Page after page of typed, numbered and colour coded notes greet her. She flips to the end and sees that there are seventy-three pages, and from what Arthur has said, she gathers that this is only a summary of what he's found in the last two days. Didn't the man ever sleep?

Her first instinct at seeing so many words swimming through her vision is to trash the file and ask the point man to simply _tell_ her what she needs to know. She has no doubts that he'll acquiesce; she doesn't think he could ever turn down a request for information. She's halfway up before she catches the expression of intense concentration on his face as his eyes flicker between his two computers, occasionally pausing to jot down some important fact. She falls back down, knowing that if Arthur had taken the time to give her notes, the least she can do is to read them.

He frowns, apparently displeased with what he's reading, and she feels a sudden ridiculous urge to smudge some of her mother's anti-wrinkle cream over his features. Because really, it would be a shame if he developed premature wrinkles.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I can't promise that every update will be so soon (I just started volunteering at camp) but I will try my hardest.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan. Reviews are highly appreciated!

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Two**

She arrives early the next morning to read the file. Arthur and Yusuf are already there and they wave at her absentmindedly from their respective desks. Eames' spot is conspicuously vacant, which she suspects is partially accountable for Arthur's displeased expression.

Two hours, fifty minutes and thirty-six seconds later, Ariadne is mentally and physically exhausted from reading while trying to ignore the hard plastic digging into her ribcage. The information is interesting to some, she supposes, but she prefers to discover people rather than have their life story dumped on her like so much calculus. In any case, she now knows just about everything there is to know about Frechette, which can only be a bonus if she's going to attempt to break down his subconscious. Her natural curiosity makes her wonder what another architect's mind will feel like. She sincerely hopes it won't be like venturing into Cobb's, where at any given moment, Mal could show up armed with a bazooka. Although from what the others have told her, Frechette probably had some serious issues of his own.

"Interesting read?" Yusuf asks, looking over her shoulder.

Ariadne shrugs. "Alright. Didn't you get one?"

"No, all this personal stuff doesn't make much of a difference when it comes to sedatives. All I care about is his BMI and any LSD addictions." He leans in closer to read the file. "I guess his taste in wall paint matters to an architect. Any ideas on what you're planning to build us?"

"Not yet," Ariadne admits. "I was thinking maybe a church or a reception hall to play on the whole wedding thing." She pauses, struck by a sudden thought. "I wonder if he helped pick out her wedding dress."

"Ask Arthur. He has all the answers to the mysteries of the universe."

"I will."

She leaves Yusuf skimming through the pages of Frechette's life and makes her way to Arthur's desk. The surface is impeccably organized, with all the notes spread out and grouped together with different coloured paperclips. She wishes that her bedroom could be half as neat, even if only to make it easier to distinguish between the clean and dirty laundry.

Arthur himself is leaning back in his chair as always, twirling his pen as he pours over a sheaf of lined paper filled to the margins with his flowing script. He looks up when she approaches and lowers the chair so that all four legs are touching the ground again.

"Something wrong?"

Ariadne shakes her head. "Actually, I have a question. Does Carla Antonelli have a wedding dress?"

She congratulates herself on Arthur's puzzled expression, the first time she's seen it. He shuffles through his notes for a few moments.

"Not yet. She's got an appointment about a month from now. Why?"

She proceeds to tell him her half-formed idea. He listens carefully, occasionally interrupting to point out a flaw or add a detail of his own. When she finishes, he stares at her as if he's never seen anything quite like her. She can feel the heat creeping up her neck and is infinitely thankful for her scarf.

"Eames isn't going to like this," he says at last.

"I know."

His lips twitch into a half smile. "I think it's brilliant."

* * *

"No way. I'm not doing it."

Five minutes after he walks into the warehouse, Ariadne and Arthur corner Eames and relay their plan to him. Watching the horror dawn upon his face, Ariadne feels a twinge of sadistic enjoyment. This will teach him to think twice before he makes any more snide comments.

"You have to admit it's imaginative," Arthur tells him calmly, not even bothering to look up from his newspaper. "You always complained about my lack of it."

"Imagination, yes. But this, this is capital punishment."

"You did it on the Fischer job. And I know you've done it before."

Eames gives the architect a look not unlike the one that's constantly on his face whenever Arthur is concerned. "There's a difference between small talking a man and playing dress up. I've got to retain at least some of my dignity."

"I've always personally thought it would be more dignified to impersonate an engaged woman than a stripper."

"Thank you Arthur. Your opinion, as always, is invaluable to my decision."

The corner of the point man's mouth tugs upward. "You're welcome. I'm sure you'll make a lovely bride, Eames."

"And I'm sure the pair of you will look splendid with bullets through your foreheads." The forger swings his jacket on and disappears out the door.

"He'll be back," Arthur says, spotting Ariadne's sceptical expression. "He can't resist a challenge." Just like her. "Start building the shop."

He turns back to his newspaper and Ariadne wanders over to her desk, feeling a little as if she's just been dismissed from the principal's office.

Models from the Fischer job are still littered everywhere, miniature hotels and hospitals tumbling over each other as she clears out some space for her sketchpad. She's never been in a bridal store before and has no idea where to start. The exterior, she assumes, will be like any other high end Parisian store: a Romantic era stone structure with several brightly lit display windows. She inks in an outline, adding double glass doors and an engraved brass plate above it. _Madame Edith_: that sounds matrimonial enough. And there would have to be some mannequins in the window, fully equipped with blonde wigs and elaborate gowns.

It takes only an hour to detail the entire street on which _Madame Edith_ stands. She lets the ink dry and then flips to a fresh page. Pen poised over creamy paper, she finds her mind blank for the first time since high school biology class. What did the interior of a bridal shop look like? She can't imagine that there will be racks and racks of dresses everywhere, not in any store that Carla Antonelli would frequent. Come to think of it, would she have to dream up thousands of wedding dresses too? A shiver of fear runs down the architect's petite frame. Fashion is most definitely _not _her strong point. Apart from a fetish for scarves, she really has no idea what she's doing most of the time.

She thinks back to her cousin's wedding over a decade ago. She'd been dragged dress shopping then, but only a few hazy memories remain, most of them pertaining to the horrible moment when she'd accidentally stepped on her cousin's train. Somehow, she doesn't think that a store real enough to fool Europe's greatest architect could be dreamt up from that particular memory.

Ariadne is reminded of the burning sensation of opening the oven door when she approaches the frowning point man (she really does have to get some of that cream from her mother) yet again, her entire head aflame with colour. She's too busy being embarrassed to notice how easily Arthur's frown vanishes when he sees her.

"Got another idea to provoke Eames?"

"No." She plucks nervously at her scarf. "Do you…do you have any idea what a bridal store looks like?"

Arthur raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Is that it?" He sounds amused. "Get your jacket, I'll take you to one."

He stands up before she can so much as utter a syllable of gratitude or protest and it's all Ariadne can do to keep pace with his long strides. His car is parked a block from the warehouse, sleek, black and simple, but obviously worth a fortune.

"This is new," she comments, slipping into the beige leather passenger seat.

"I had to do something with all the money gathering dust in my bank account."

He turns the key in the ignition and Ariadne is surprised to hear the sounds of soft, coffee lounge jazz pour through the static free speakers.

"I always had you down as the Mozart type," she tells him, letting the muted trumpet melody wash over her.

"Did you?"

He looks straight at her and she knows that the sudden pounding against her ribs has nothing to do with the fact that he's not watching the road. She lowers her gaze to her lap and fiddles with her scarf, painfully aware that this is the first time they've been alone since the hotel room in his dream. Seven months had faded the memory, but sitting so close to him, she can practically feel an entire subconscious bearing down on her.

_Quick, give me a kiss._

"I won't bite, you know," he tells her, eyes back on the road. Her mind immediately constructs a scenario in which his teeth against her skin wouldn't be such a bad thing and she feels like a silly schoolgirl again.

"So…" She casts around for some impersonal topic that her brain can't twist. "Where are we going?"

"_Le moineau_," he replies. "Mal bought her wedding dress there."

"Were you – "

"Yes," he says, answering her unspoken question. "Mal didn't have any female relatives but she didn't want Cobb to see, so she made Eames and I go instead. I suspect that's why he's so against the idea of shopping for a wedding dress, even in a dream."

"Did Eames know Mal well too?" she asks.

"We met Cobb through her."

He says no more and Ariadne knows better than to press him. She spends the rest of the ride trying to imagine a younger, happier Mal, giddy with the excitement of getting married, and Eames and Arthur, helping her to pick out the perfect dress. The image makes her feel sick.

They pull up in front of a building that doesn't look quite as ancient as Ariadne's sketches. In fact, it feels almost too modern to be in Paris, but she still feels a leap of triumph as they walk through the double glass doors under the brass nameplate.

The interior reminds her more of a hotel lobby than anything else. There are couches scattered around the room, most of them already filled. Everything from the cushion covers to the artfully arranged flowers screams lace and frills so loudly that Ariadne swears she can feel her eardrums bursting.

A tall, graceful woman dressed from head to toe in various shades of black glides from behind the reception counter and asks if they have an appointment.

"Mademoiselle, you misunderstand. We are reporters from The London Gazette and we'd like to write an article about your establishment." Arthur flashes her a dazzling smile that Ariadne sincerely hopes he will never have to use again.

The woman practically falls over him and starts listing off the names of everyone from the fashion director to the janitor who could possibly help them. Arthur has to give her the hated smile a dozen more times before he can convince her that they really don't need any assistance. Ariadne finds herself hoping that the woman will trip in her three inch stilettos and crack her perfectly sculpted skull. A bloody nose wouldn't be bad either.

They finally manage to shake her off and he leads the architect into the bowels of the store. It's a shade less lacy than the reception area, but there are still too many flowers on the wallpaper to suit her taste. Prospective brides stand in front of full length mirrors, surrounded by giggling friends and family. A hallway leads to what she suspects are fitting rooms and a door marked _Employees Only_ she guesses leads to the storeroom. A dozen dresses with impossible price tags that all look the same to her are displayed around the room. She notices that several people are staring at them and realizes that Arthur is probably the only man within a hundred metre radius.

"If you ever decide to give up extracting, you could have quite a successful career as a gigolo," Ariadne murmurs as they circle the room, taking in every detail.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes." She stops to look down the hall of fitting rooms. "That receptionist was throwing herself all over you."

"She did seem a bit odd," the point man admits. "This way," he adds, steering her towards the _Employees Only_ door.

"I'm not finished," she hisses, even though she's enjoying the sensation of his hand against her back.

"You don't need to make an exact copy, just the gist of the place."

He pushes the door open and Ariadne is greeted by the largest mass of white she's ever seen. Black figures navigate back and forth between the lanes of puffy white material, occasionally pulling a hanger off the rack. They're too busy to notice them and in any case, Arthur fits in perfectly here with his black suit. She can't say the same for her worn sneakers and paint splattered jeans.

"Why is this important?" she whispers. "Frechette will probably never see it."

"It'll come in handy if we need an escape route," he replies, nodding towards the emergency exits on either side of the room. "This is exactly the kind of place we need, only ten times as big and with more offices. It has to be the kind of place Frechette could potentially go to in real life."

"Right."

She scans everything rapidly as they leave and ingrains the images in her memory. The receptionist is thankfully occupied with another customer at the door and they manage to get by with only one smile from Arthur.

* * *

"Where the hell have you lot been?" Eames demands the moment Ariadne and Arthur walk in. "I've been here for two hours already, waiting for you to show up."

"And we were here for hours before that," Arthur replies, shedding his jacket. "We've been visiting bridal shops."

"Bridal shops?" Yusuf swivels around in his chair to face them. "Who's getting married?"

"Why don't _you_ tell him, Eames?"

Eames shoots the smirking point man a look that clearly says he had better hire a poison taster to check his meals. "Arthur and Ariadne think it would be a good idea for me to impersonate Carla Antonelli so I can go dress shopping with Frechette in the dream, which I think is utterly – "

"Brilliant!" Yusuf exclaims and Ariadne experiences a rush of hitherto unknown affection for the chemist. Arthur leans back in his chair, looking more and more like the Cheshire Cat.

"That's three to one Eames. Looks like you've got no choice."

"Since when did this team become the bloody House of Commons?"

"We need to get you access to Carla Antonelli," Arthur continues, ignoring the cursing forger. "Her father's expressly forbidden involving her in any way, so we'll need another entrance. I think Saito's got a mistress that's a friend of Carla's. We could have her recommend you as a highly skilled personal assistant. Luckily, Antonelli's only ever seen me, so there should be no problem with recognition."

"I still haven't agreed to do it, you know," Eames points out.

"You will," Arthur assures him.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks so much to everyone who wrote me sentences of review! I'm a little worried that I won't match up to all your expectations. This chapter is a little information packed, I know, but I already cut out the original second half for the next chapter so there wouldn't be more spontaneous spouting of information than there already is. It really is necessary, I promise. On the upside, this means most of chapter four is already written.

A few people have been asking about the title _Matryoshka_. The Matryoshka principle is a design paradigm that recognizes object with object designs in nature and man-made design. Thinks of the onion principle. The most common usage is the Matryoshka doll, or the Russian nesting doll. And it will definitely be mentioned somewhere in the story.

Again, Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan. And I heart reviews.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**_A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

It takes another two days to convince Eames. The moment he caves Arthur calls Saito, who easily agrees to pull them the favour. Three days later, Eames is firmly installed as Carla Antonelli's personal assistant. Flipping through the pages of his daily planner, Ariadne is infinitely thankful that Carla never once insists on reading her own schedule. Somehow, she doesn't think _flicks hair for a living _under Tuesday at three o'clock will impress the heiress.

Arthur keeps her busy building a labyrinth bridal shop. Yusuf stays late into the night developing sedatives, which she occasionally sees him testing on Arthur. She's immensely jealous because she desperately wants to fall into another lucid dream, but she knows that the architect doesn't have to go under, so the only time she'll be able to dream is when she's teaching her mazes to the rest of the team. Nevertheless, she retains a spark of hope that she'll be allowed to go with them. Three could suffice, but maybe, just maybe, they would need another member.

It dawns on Ariadne one night as she's at the warehouse late yet again, finalizing her model, that she's losing herself in the job. It's easy for Arthur and Eames, who do this for a living and Yusuf doesn't exactly have anywhere he needs to be. But trying to break into someone else's mind does no favours for finishing her degree, as she soon realizes when the results of her latest geometry test are returned. If the job goes well, she won't need a diploma but it seems a waste to throw six years of her life down to the catacombs.

"Still here?" Arthur asks, strolling up to her desk. He observes her silently for a moment, possibly taking in her limp hair and the shadowy purples and blues under her eyes, which are intensified by the single flourescent bulb above her. "You need to sleep more," he declares.

She lifts and lowers one shoulder in a half shrug. "I'm used to it."

"When was the last time you had a full eight hours of natural sleep?"

Ariadne thinks back, counting the years. "First year of high school. You?"

"I was never much of a sleeper," he replies, examining her model. "This isn't for Frechette, is it?"

"It's for class," she explains. "It's easier to work here than at home."

He fingers the delicate strands of wire holding the bridge up. "It's beautiful."

She's never been more appreciative of the warehouse's dim lighting than now, with all the blood rushing to her face and Arthur less than a foot away from her. Mercifully, his eyes remain on the bridge.

"How's school?" he asks suddenly and she nearly jumps. He never asks her personal questions and she suspects he might even be attempting to make small talk.

"It's alright…I mean, it's not great, but it has its moments, you know?" Ariadne curses her stumbling tongue, which seems to have a habit of disconnecting from her brain in moments of need. "My finals are in less than a month."

"Don't let all this distract you from studying," Arthur warns her. He sounds exactly like her father during one of his _We paid good money to raise you so don't let that enormous brain go to waste_ lectures. "Miles will be after my blood if you don't graduate."

"What - _Professor_ Miles? What does he know about this?" She's aware that he passed the team's message on to her, but from all she knows of the need for secrecy, she'd have thought Arthur would have passed it off as a note from a relative or long lost friend.

"Not too much," Arthur admits. "But it took weeks to persuade him to even let you hear the offer. I don't think he'll be very impressed if his brightest student fails because of this job. So make sure you pass with flying colours."

"You needed his permission to ask me?" Ariadne demands, confused and a little peeved at being treated like a small child. It was through her favourite professor that she'd learned about extraction, but she's always assumed that that was the end of his involvement, that Cobb had simply asked him for a budding architect to corrupt. The idea that he knows just what her job entails has never entered her mind.

"Miles has always been overly protective of his students," Arthur explains. "I guess he feels responsible for their well-being. You wouldn't believe how long it took before he would let Mal and Cobb dream on their own."

"Mal? Cobb?" She's completely lost now. For the first time she remembers, the point man is making absolutely no sense to her.

"He never told you?"

"Told me what?"

He looks mildly uncomfortable under her demanding gaze. "Miles was Mal's father and he taught Cobb how to navigate people's minds. That's how they met."

Ariadne takes a moment to digest this simple statement. If the idea of her professor knowing about extraction is strange, the concept of him teaching it to Cobb is even harder to wrap her mind around, never mind the fact that he was secretly Mal's father. In a way, she supposes that it makes sense - it at least fills in a few of the holes in her knowledge of Cobb. But it still seems strangely at odds with what she knows and presents her with even more questions, the answers to which she doesn't know.

"So, Professor Miles...he's an extractor too?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Extraction was invented by the corporate world as a way to knock out their competition, but lucid dreaming was perfected by psychologists."

She thinks back to her first conversation with him. "I thought it was developed by the military to train soldiers?"

"The military corrupts everything for their own use," he replies, and she senses an inexplicable distate in his normally impassive voice. "It started out as a form of therapy. Miles used to teach psychotherapy at the university, as well as architectural design."

"Really?" She tries to imagine Professor Miles sitting next to a couch listening to other people's problems rather than covering blackboards with diagrams of drawbridges and finds it surprisingly easy. He did always like to sneak in some comment about the psyche while discussing torque.

"He used to take his students into the dream world and teach them how to use it to help the patient dig into their own subconscious," Arthur continues. "He was one of the best, but he got less enthusiastic as the extraction business grew because too many of his students were becoming thieves instead of dreamers. Miles doesn't believe in stealing from people when they're at their most vulnerable."

"But Cobb and Mal - how did they end up becoming extractors then?"

"Mal was never into extracting, and Cobb didn't start until after she died. They dreamed for the sake of pushing the boundaries. They always wanted to be the first."

"And Professor Miles...why doesn't he teach psychotherapy anymore?"

"Because of Mal's death," Arthur replies. "He blamed himself for teaching her and Cobb and failing to see their obssession with dreams. You're the first of his students since to learn about it."

"I see," she murmurs. She's seen how the guilt of inception has tortued Cobb's mind, and she wonders if Professor Miles is the same, wrapped in so much guilt and afraid that another of his students would go the same way. If she needs any more convincing to stick out the month left in her education, then the thought of disappointing the man who's taught her so much is definitely it.

They fade into a silence which is half companionable, half awkward. Ariadne tries to focus on carving the linoleum block in front of her into the foundations of the suspension bridge, but it's almost impossible to concentrate with the sound of Arthur's quiet breathing inches from her ear. It feels stupid to simply keep working with him watching her so closely. At the same time, she wants this moment to last just a little longer.

In the end, the choice is made by Yusuf, who walks into the warehouse muttering about having dropped his totem somewhere. Arthur immediately goes to help and the moment is lost. She's almost glad for the chemist's intervention as she takes a deep breath and pulls herself back together. She isn't quite sure what happened but this time, her curiosity lies dormant. Some things, Ariadne reasons, are better left unknown.

* * *

A week after she walks into the warehouse, Ariadne finds herself back in a rickety lawn chair with yet another manila folder in her hands, although this one is significantly lighter.

"We'll do the same as we did on the Fischer job." Arthur explains to the team gathered around him. "Three dreams and we'll ride the kicks back up to the top."

He divides the whiteboard into into three with two strokes of his Magic Marker as Eames mumbles something about originality. "The lowest layer will incorporate a safe, which is simple enough. Frechette's subconscious will keep whatever he's trying to hide from Antonelli in there, so all we have to do is open it."

"I appreciate the utter ingenuity of your plan, Arthur, but might I point out that this man's subconscious has been trained not to put important information in safes? I'd hate to risk my neck for some crayon drawing he did as a six year old."

The point man smirks. "That's why we've got the other two dreams. If we suggest to his subconscious that Antonelli suspects something, it should cause enough panic to override whatever training he has."

"Won't that militarize his subconscious more?" Ariadne point out, thinking of Fischer's hefty bodyguards.

"It's a risk we'll have to take."

"I'm working on a new sedative," Yusuf interjects. "It'll subdue his subconscious while making Frechette himself more aware. Hopefully."

"Spectacular," Eames mutters. "Another opportunity to visit limbo. If we keep this up, I might just get the chance to see what Cobb's done with the décor."

"I'm sorry, Eames, do you have a suggestion to make?"

"I've got plenty of suggestions about where you can shove that marker."

Yusuf snorts with laughter and Ariadne has to work to bite back a grin at the look on Arthur's face. His impassive expression soon returns, however, and he continues as if nothing has happened.

"The second dream will be the bridal store, which will give Carla Antonelli, played, of course, by the lovely Miss Eames (the forger's smile slides off his face in record time), a chance to work on Frechette's possible jitters. The top layer will be a convention that will be headed by the target, and that will give us an opportunity to talk with his projections and sneak in some comments about what Antonelli may or may not suspect."

He turns to Ariadne. "I'm sorry, but as Frechette's a genius, he'll know if we try to strike up a conversation about architecture. You'll have to go in the dream with us."

Ariadne nods, hoping that her excitement isn't too obvious. She doesn't care what she has to do, so long as she can share in the exhilaration of dreaming.

"Frechette is giving a big speech two weeks from now on his famous minimalist design at a gala at the Hôtel Lotti, which he's done before. He always books a junior suite and has a bottle of Bordeaux sent up before he arrives. All we need to do is get there first and slip some of Yusuf's sedatives in his glass."

"Is that it?" Eames demands. "We're going to waltz away with Frechette's secrets just like that?"

"Yes. The details aren't down yet obviously, but that's the gist of the idea."

"Dear God, whatever happened during the Revolutionary War? I thought the Yankees were supposed to be the tacticians."

"We still won," Arthur points out.

"Through sheer luck, it seems." Eames stands up and makes his way to his desk, still muttering about Americans. Ariadne makes to follow, but the point man stops her.

"I know you want to build," he tells her, "but if you're going to crack Frechette, you have to learn how to talk to his projections."

She's delighted not to build (to be honest, she's getting a little bored of utility knives and cardboard) and follows him to the back of the warehouse, where the tubes and suitcases are set out. She's snuck in here twice after everyone else has left, but she hasn't shared her dreams with anyone since the Fischer job.

Arthur explains the basics to her as he sets the timer and untangles the tubes. "Projections aren't exactly a part of the subconscious, but they're formed from similar thoughts and ideas. If the subconscious was a planet, the projections would be the people who inhabit it. They're all different, but they all embody some part of the target's mind. They're essentially the subconscious' connection to whoever else is in the dream, which means they're the perfect way to learn more about the target. The trick is to get what you want without attracting too much attention to yourself."

"And I do that by..."

"You'll see," he assures her, handing her a needle.

"Whose dream are we going into?" she asks, settling back in the patio furniture.

"Mine," he answers, and slides his own needle under his skin.


	4. Chapter 4

I love everyone who reviewed. You guys literally wrote me paragraphs - I felt like a little kid on Christmas morning when I was checking my email. Can you taste the virtual chocolate that I'm sending you?

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

They're back in that first building, where he'd taught her about Penrose staircases, sitting on a bench just beside the famous stairs. Her subconscious swarms around them, doing mundane tasks like drinking coffee and rapping orders into their cell phones. She's still amazed by how easily her subconscious fits into an environment where she feels so out of place. Frankly, the idea of wearing a suit intimidates her, and yet her projections are parading around in business attire as if it's the easiest thing in the world.

"What are you doing?" she asks Arthur, who's already stood up.

"First lesson: the basis of interacting with projections is extraction. I'm going to see if I can find out anything from yours. Don't move," he adds, as he walks towards a young woman in a blue-grey suit.

He bumps into her, it seems, entirely by accident, and her stack of papers goes flying. Both of them kneel down and spend several minutes gathering the scattered sheets. She's too far away to hear what they're saying, but as Arthur hands the papers back to the woman, she flushes pink. Ariadne wonders briefly if it's healthy to be jealous of her own subconscious and then decides that it doesn't matter because the twinge in her stomach is probably just a need for food.

"Your grandmother bought you your first scarf," Arthur informs her as he sits back down. "It was most likely white with grey flowers."

She gapes at him, all the while wracking her brain to remember if she's ever told him this. She's positive she hasn't; she can't see any reason for discussing her Christmas presents from ten years ago with him.

"How do you know?" she demands.

His lips twitch in amusement at her outraged tone and he points at the woman he bumped into. Ariadne stares at her intently and realizes that the scarf around her neck is indeed the one she'd received from her grandmother so many years ago.

"I told her I thought I'd seen the scarf somewhere before, and she said that it wasn't likely because her grandmother had made it."

"So why did you think my grandmother bought me the scarf then, if _her _grandmother made it?"

"The subconscious likes to trick itself," Arthur explains. "It never tells the direct truth, so a lot of what we do is guesswork. Yours probably views the gift with a lot of sentiment, enough to turn a store bought scarf into a handmade one. And it's not very likely that your grandmother would be able to make a silk scarf like that, although I'm sure talent runs in the family."

Ariadne ponders this for a moment and can spot no holes in his logic. "But why is that even relevant?" she asks instead. "How would knowing where Frechette got his first suit help us convince him that Antonelli suspects something?"

"It won't, but the small details will lead you to the larger picture, which will help you to push the right buttons," he replies. "Like you scarf. Attachment to the present probably means attachment to the giver as well. Were you close to your grandmother?"

Scenes of childhood days spent climbing the apple tree in her grandmother's backyard and doodling tiny buildings in her yellowing recipe books flash through her mind. "Yes."

"There you go. A little bit of educated guessing will get you what you need."

The memories of sunlit afternoons fade into hospital beds and flatlining monitors. "But if the giver's already dead, that wouldn't be useful, would it? Is there a way to tell?"

Arthur's eyes stop roaming the building and fix on her, their expression unreadable. After a moment where the only noise is that of her projections' heels and chatter, he looks away. "No. I'm sorry."

In those three words, Ariadne hears more than an answer to her question. There's a pity that she can't bear because of all the emotions possible, she doesn't want him to feel sorry for her, or even worse, to think her weak. The bittersweet nostalgia rising up her throat is forced down with a swallow and she directs her will to focus on another thought circling the edges of her mind.

"What did you say to make her turn so red?"

"That she's a talented girl who should stop hiding it behind a scarf," he responds, still not looking at her. He stands up and Ariadne follows, mind dazed. "You've seen the basics of how it's done. Let's see you tackle my subconscious now."

* * *

"Interesting choice," Arthur murmurs, looking around the room. "Not a bad place for talking to strangers."

She's built a bar, not the cheap, questionable kind, more like an alcoholic version of Poet's Corner. The counters are polished marble to reflect the flickering flames of the candles scattered everywhere. The barman mixes daiquiris and margaritas to the notes of the melody she'd heard in Arthur's car. The leather barstools are also stolen from there.

Arthur nudges her gently. "Your turn. Remember to keep calm and don't act as if you're talking to my subconscious." He points to the barman. "Try him."

Ariadne gulps down the copious amounts of saliva that her nerves have created and makes her way from their tiny alcove to the glistening counter. The barman, who looks like he's probably a stock broker by day, stops polishing the thin-stemmed glass in his hand as she climbs onto a stool.

"What can I get you?"

"Um…"

She casts her mind back to graduation night, the only time she'd ever actually drunk anything at a bar. It had not been a particularly memorable experience. "A tequila sunrise?"

"Coming right up."

He pulls bottles from the shelves behind the counter and mixes the ingredients in a way that completely baffles her. She's not entirely sure whether to drink or take a picture with the elaborate finished product that he hands her. She glances back at Arthur, who raises his champagne flute bemusedly.

"Are you looking for someone?" the barman asks her.

"Ah…no, I'm not."

She swivels her eyes back to the man in front of her. "Just wandered off a little there," she lies. "Bad day at work."

The barman nodes understandingly. "Tell me about it. I had two women in here regurgitating vodka all over their designer shoes and then they tried to sue me for getting them drunk."

Ariadne chuckles as she listens to the barman detail the rest of his day. She's surprised by how easy it is to converse with a projection; she doesn't even need to pretend he's real because he sounds nothing like a figment of Arthur's subconscious. The time flies by and before she realizes it, the hour is up and she's lying in a deck chair again.

"That was quite good," Arthur tells her, sitting up. "I'm impressed that you managed to keep the projection talking for so long, although you were starting to attract some attention there towards the end."

"He didn't exactly make it difficult," she replies. "I had no idea your subconscious was so talkative."

"It's my subconscious. I have no control over it." He leans forward in his chair, elbows on knees. "Did you learn anything?"

She mulls over the barman's words, searching for some hidden meaning and comes up blank. Much to her annoyance, the point man is practically grinning.

"Talkative projections are one of the first signs of a trained subconscious," he laughs. "You give so much information that the dreamer can't separate the important things from the nonsense."

"Why the hell didn't you tell me this earlier?" she demands.

"You learn from your mistakes," he replies smoothly.

"Wonderful."

He laughs again, making Ariadne think that it's almost worth her utter failure to hear his soft laughter bouncing off the walls of the warehouse. It makes her think of a younger, more carefree Arthur (although in all likelihood, he probably isn't that much older than she is), perhaps lounging in the bar they'd just left, with a pretty girl on his arm…

No, that particular picture would not work. Arthur does not strike her as the bar hopping type. Her illusions shatter and she's back to hating his guts with an intensity that rather astonishes her.

"You did well," he reassures the architect, resetting the timer on the suitcase. "You just need to be less...innocent. Question why the projection's doing what it's doing." He leans back. "Try one more time."

"Anything else you want to warn me about before I make a fool of myself again?"

He depresses the spongy centre of the suitcase. "Don't talk for so long. A few minutes is more than enough if the projection has something to give away. And pay attention to what they're doing."

* * *

This time, Ariadne creates a familiar environment; a high-ceilinged gothic era room lined with shelf after shelf of worn and dusty volumes. She doesn't wait for Arthur to point out a projection (there's no reason why he won't pick out another trained one) but wanders down the aisles herself, browsing for a suitable projection.

She spots one in the geography section, a small wispy haired girl who looks like she's on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It's as far from the image of the talkative barman as she can get. The girl murmurs a tiny _hello_ as Ariadne sits down beside her. The atlas the projection is flipping through, she notices, is turned to a map of England.

"Studying for exams?" she asks, doing her best to imitate Arthur's nonchalant tone.

The wispy girl jumps slightly at being spoken to. "Oh...yes...exams..."

Something about her manner strikes the architect as very familiar. She leans in closer and the projection flinches. "Have you see the school psychiatrist's office? It's jam packed with practically the entire engineering department heading towards a collective breakdown."

"Yes...I was just there...engineering...excuse me."

The girl drops the atlas and bolts out of her seat faster than an F-16 Viper. Ariadne suspects she's gone to the bathroom to vomit or faint, common occurrences at her own university these days, with finals just around the corner. The symptoms remind her of one of her high school friends who had suffered a panic attack the week universities started sending out acceptance letters. She takes one last peek at the atlas and the notes lying on top before returning to Arthur's table.

"Were you successful this time?" he asks with a small smile, evidently (so she thinks) anticipating another failure.

"I think so." She slides into a chair opposite him. "Cambridge University, psychology major?"

His smile fades a fraction and she knows that this time, she wins. "How did you find out?" he asks, and she has to applaud his ability to keep a poker voice.

"The girl looked like she was heading for a breakdown," Ariadne elaborates. "And she was looking at a map of England. I guessed the Cambridge part - it's supposed to offer the best pscyhology program in Britain and I figured you'd never setlle for second. Is that where you met Eames?" she continues with her own smile of satisfaction at Arthur's expression.

"I didn't exactly meet him _at_ the university," he replies after a moment.

"No, I can't really see him sitting quietly and taking notes in a classroom." She pauses. "Why psychology? I thought you'd be the business or law kind."

"If I tell you everything now, there'll be nothing left for you to extract next time," the point man answers, his smile returning at the sight of her disgusted expression. "I'm impressed though. Cobb was right about your ability to pick things up. You did much better than I did my first time."

"What happened?" she asks, curiosity overcoming her irritation.

"Not much." He rubs his neck (this is definitely a habit she hasn't seen) sheepishly. "Eames' little sister shot me about thirty seconds into the dream."

"Oh."

She can still remember the sensation of a kitchen knife plunging into her stomach and the accompanying shock that rips her body back into reality. The first night she'd dreamed again, she had seen Mal's murderous face everywhere and had woken gasping, half convinced that there would be blood pouring from her stomach onto the sheets.

"It ends, you know," Arthur says, watching her closely. "The fear of dying in a dream. It's never pleasant, but eventually the novelty of it wears off."

Yet again, Ariadne is struck by how easy he makes it all sound, how he can talk so calmly, so _detachedly_ about dying, as if it's just a simple inconvenience tacked on as an afterthought to the job description. The only time she'd ever seen him fazed had been upon discovering that dying would not save him. She wonders if she'll ever be like him, even after years of experience, if she will ever be reassured by the thought of death as a way to life. She doesn't think so, but then she wonders if Arthur had once had the same thoughts. And that gets her thinking whether his projections would favourr a knife or a gun, or possibly some other method. And what did her own mind prefer?

He's dangerously close again, and she wants make to him back off so she can breathe. When he speaks, she can smell his spearmint toothpaste.

"Don't worry about it," he murmurs softly, so that the projection passing by them can't hear. "I won't let my subconscious hurt you."

"No one likes to feel someone else messing around with their dreams," she quotes, surprised she can talk at all. "Besides, you can't control your subconscious."

He smiles a little and shifts back. "Maybe I just need to try a little harder."

* * *

**Just an ending note**: At last count, I rewrote Ariadne's dream four times. This version is, I think, my favourite, but I'm still iffy about whether she should have found anything at all on her first try - does her genius for architecture extend to extraction? I honestly have no idea. I'm also still debating whether Arthur should've told her more about himself; I know a lot of people were expecting some very important secrets, but my instinct tells me that both he and Ariande are very closed, almost awkward people when it comes to themselves. I hope I didn't disappoint you with this rather anticlimatic chapter...feel free to spam me if I did.

So yeah, my brain hurts and I'm posting this now before I spontaneusly combust from the need to tinker with it again. Although that might provide some interesting fireworks.


	5. Chapter 5

So apparently, the last chapter was not an utter failure and people were okay with it. Which leads me to another dilemma: at the moment, I have only one more projection interrogating dream planned between Arthur and Ariadne because her training isn't really that important...but I sort of like writing about it. At the same time, I don't want to bog down the story...so would you want to read more dreams (they'd be really short and inserted randomly) or can I just glide over them?

In case you still can't tell, I love reviews and everyone who has done so are my heros.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

The beach is quiet and still as the sun peeks across its surface. A low breeze stirs the grains of sand and harmonizes perfectly with the sound of waves lapping against the shore. Seagulls swoop overhead, occasionally breaking the silence with a cry that speaks of ageless and unending heartbreak. The few clouds floating in the deep blue sky are tinted pale gold and orange by the edge of sun visible over the horizon.

It all reminds Ariadne of the family trip to la Côte d'Azur when she was thirteen. It was because of that trip that she'd decided to study in France, so she could always feel the ocean spray on her face. The Paris university life, she eventually discovered, was much different from the vacation cottages of the Mediterranean coast but she grew to love the street side coffee shops and dusty, used bookstores just as much as the rush of the morning tide. She hasn't been back to the French seaside since that trip, so that this one is like rediscovering it all over again.

A lone figure stands at the edge of the water, too shrouded in shadow for her to identify. She takes a few steps closer, relishing the feel of smooth, wet sand under her feet, and details start to emerge from the blur. A dark vest covers the striped dress shirt that's rolled up to the elbow. A loosened tie is barely visible at the collar. Polished loafers and hair gel complete the picture. The man clearly does not belong on the beach.

He turns at the sound of her muffled footsteps, the familiar half smile tugging at his lips.

"Hello Ariadne."

She doesn't say anything, merely enjoys the moment of silence that is, for once, not uncomfortable but peaceful. He accepts her muteness without comment and together, they watch as the light of the sun grows ever brighter. When the sky turns a clear blue, she finally speaks.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

The point man smile and nods, then reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before his hands move to her neck and he slowly chokes the life from her.

* * *

She emerges from the dream as from water, floundering for air and grasps for something solid to hold onto. Her flying fingers latch onto a grey suit sleeve and she clutches it as a ship, its mooring.

"Relax, darling. It's just a dream."

She forces her mind to focus on the forger's swimming face and blurts out the first thing that comes to her.

"Where's Arthur?"

Eames' eyebrows shoot up but he has the sense not to question the panicking architect. "He's at a meeting with Antonelli. He should be back any minute. I just came in from Carla's hairdresser and heard you screaming bloody murder."

Ariadne leans back, breathing a small sigh of relief. She can still feel the phantom tingle of fingers tightening around her neck, but the bishop digging into her leg and Eames' words reassure her that it was not Arthur trying to throttle her.

"I'm impressed, Ariadne. Did you really fall asleep with that in your hand?"

"What? Oh, yeah, I did."

She places the sculpting scalpel carefully on the desk beside the beginnings of the building that will house Frechette's convention. Eames studies her carefully for a moment.

"You know, I'd tell you to get more sleep, but I suspect that's more Arthur's thing." He perches on the edge of her desk between a box of graphite pencils and a geometry set. "By the way, what in the world were you dreaming about?"

"Um…" She waves her hands around vaguely. "Stuff."

"Stuff. Must be some pretty intense _stuff_ to make you holler like that." When she says nothing, only picks at a hangnail, he looks her straight in the eye. "You're lucky to dream at all, you know. None of the rest of us can. You'll miss it eventually, even the nightmares."

"I doubt it," Ariadne mumbles, thinking of the dreams she's been having since her first lesson with Arthur. They're always the same; an absurdly beautiful spot borne from some place she'd visited when she was younger, and Arthur, perfect and intent on killing her, or herself the murderer and he the victim. And with each venture into his subconscious, with each tidbit they learn about each other, the dreams come faster and more often. Every time she drops into a doze, he wakes her up.

"You _will_ miss it," Eames repeats simply, sounding more like the point man than his usual easy-going self. He looks like he wants to say more and she hurriedly cuts him off, not wanting to linger any longer on the dream, especially when she knows that it will replay itself on her eyelids each time she closes her eyes.

"What have you been up to?" she asks.

She can see Eames debating whether or not to pepper her with his own questions as he turns the scalpel she'd just abandoned in his hands. Finally, he gives in and answers her.

"I've been tailing Carla, just as Mr. Stick-in-the-mud ordered. And I've found some quite interesting things. Care to hear?"

"Yes," she replies, thankful that he's given up so easily for the time being, but knowing that she hasn't heard the last of it.

The forger pulls Carla's planner out of his suit jacket. "Let's see…coffee with two creams and no sugar, fake ginger hair, knobbly knees…Do you know she eats like a man?" He smirks at the architect's expression. "Oh yes, Miss Antonelli has quite the appetite, and she's extraordinarily fond of rare steak."

"Is this really necessary?" Ariadne murmurs weakly. "It's just dress shopping."

"If I want to get through this with my head still attached to my neck, I have to know absolutely everything. And believe it or not, your darling Arthur doesn't actually have all the answers. Nobody ever remembers their bank account balance, but if I miss a single mannerism, Frechette will suspect something."

"What, so there's more to this whole forging thing than just a penchant for lying?"

"Don't trust him to always tell you everything," Eames tells her as Arthur pushes open the warehouse door. "I bet he never told you that he's a certified pilot."

"What – "

The grinning forger pats her patronizingly on the head. "Time for me to disappear. Remember, he's not the only one looking out for you." He tips her a wink and brushes past Arthur on his way out the door, still chuckling to himself.

"What was that all about?" Arthur asks her, a small frown on his face as he watches the forger leave.

"Nothing," she lies. All the fear from her dream that had vanished with Eames rushes back at the sight of the point man. Her hand unconsciously slips into her jeans pocket and curls around the golden bishop inside.

"Right. Well, make sure you get it sorted."

"I will," Ariadne replies automatically. Arthur gives her a brief, knowing smile that makes her want to crawl under her chair and die, then it's back to business.

"How are the models coming along?" Arthur asks from his desk.

"I finished the bridal shop." She pulls the painted, finished model from the ledge above her head and balances it carefully on her desk. "It's ten times bigger than _Le moineau_, just like you asked. I added a maze into the backroom, which should slow down Frechette's subconscious in case it decides to attack us. And I'm halfway through the convention hall, but I've been meaning to ask you if I should plan out the city for _Madame Edith_ because it might seen a little weird if Frechette just suddenly drops asleep in a bridal shop."

Arthur rubs his chin thoughtfully (she admires the fact that even with the all-nighters he's constantly pulling at the mirror-free warehouse, he still manages not to have even a hint of stubble). "Try a private restaurant room or another hotel," he suggests. "Eames can slip something into his food."

"He'll love that," Ariadne laughs. "Seduction is right up his alley. What?" she demands, for Arthur is suddenly stiff as a chess piece.

"Nothing," he replies, his face and voice unreadable. "I'll tell Eames."

"Right," she replies, not quite sure what to make of his ramrod straight profile. "Well, I've been wondering about what to build for the last dream too, besides a safe."

"I would model it after the house where Frechette grew up," he advises her, still stiff. "Because a familiar environment – "

"Makes the subconscious feel safer," she finishes.

"Exactly. Frechette spent nearly fifteen years living at his godfather's estate and from all accounts, he always loved the place. He still lives there sometimes. Of course, it's much harder to recreate a real place, especially one that the target is so familiar with…" He trails off, the glint of a question just visible in his dark eyes.

"Don't worry, it won't be a problem," Ariadne hastens to ensure him.

"You'll need to get every single detail down to the smells, and then teach it to the dreamer," he warns her. "You won't be able to take any shortcuts."

"I _know_, Arthur."

She knows that it's his job to make sure all the details are covered because if anything goes wrong, he'll be liable. Still, she's a bit offended at his sudden lack of confidence in her ability. Hadn't he seen her raise skyscrapers from blocks of modelling clay?

"If you're good with the idea, then you should get started as soon as possible." He hands her another file folder (golden rod yellow this time, but it still makes Ariadne want to strangle the point man). She opens it and dozens of snapshots pour out.

"These are all the photos I could get of the place and some blueprints," he explains. "You'll still need to visit, though. Luckily, Frechette's godfather is looking to renovate the entire estate, so I'll see if I can get you and Eames in as prospective contractors."

"Eames?" she asks, puzzled. "Aren't you coming?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I've been with Antonelli too many times. The chances of anyone recognizing me are slim, but it's not a risk I'm willing to take."

Ariadne isn't quite sure how this announcement makes her feel. Most of her is rather apathetic as to who accompanies her (after all, it's just a ruse, and in any case, they'll be nothing more than business partners) but the miniscule feminine portion of her brain is at odds over whether to be disappointed that she won't be spending more time with Arthur or to be comforted by the fact that with Eames, there will be no uncomfortable silences. She decides, in the end, to feel nothing and withhold judgement until the moment is over.

"You should get going," he says after a few moments of (awkward, again) silence. "It's late."

She glances at the clock hanging on the wall behind his desk and swears, causing Arthur's sharp figure to loosen somewhat. It's half past one; she is most definitely going to be late for her next class at two, and with Professor Miles, no less. Jumping up from her chair, she scrambles around her desk, stuffing pens and textbooks into her bag.

"I can drive you if you want," Arthur offers, nimbly steeping out of the way as she dives for the keys to her bike, which have mysteriously ended up on his desk

"You just got back," Ariadne protests rather half-heartedly.

"I don't have anything else to do," he retorts. They both know it's a blatant lie, but at this point, she's desperate and will gladly accept help from anyone, even a man with an odd fixation of popping up in her dreams to kill her off.

Five minutes later, after she finally manages to extract her wallet from the bottom of Frechette's files, they pull out of the side street housing their warehouse.

"You should really keep more organized," Arthur observes as he brakes at a red light and she takes the opportunity of a lull in movement to scribble a few more words onto her essay.

"Really Arthur? Do we have to address this now? I'm trying not to fail art design here. So you know, unless you happen to be an expert in the surrealism movement, I'd really appreciate it if you just stick to driving and save all your snide comments for Eames. Or at least wait until I have a hand free to get my scalpel" She scratches out a sentence with rather more force than necessay. "And of course, I left that on my desk."

"I've always been a fan of Salvador Dali," Arthur muses, depressing the gas pedal as lightly as he can so as not to send the fuming architect and her essay flying.

Ariadne's head jerks up. "Salvador Dali? What do you know about Salvador Dali?"

"That depends on what you want to know."

"Everything," she breathes, relief and adrenaline flooding her nervous system at the thought that she might not have to face Professor Miles' wrath.

The point man spews out more information than the four hundred and sixty-three pages of her textbook, all with an enthusiasm that never permeates his expression when he talks about hotel bookings and targets. She stores the lilts and nuances of his voice away for later perusal, so that she can disect this hitherto unknown fascination of his with _The First Days of Spring_.

The car rolls to a stop outside the front doors of the university as she crosses her last _t_ with a flourish. "If I pass this, I will love you forever," she promises its driver, all memory of her dream wiped out for now.

A small smile pulls at the corner of Arthur's mouth. "I hope you pass, then. Do you need a ride back? Your bicycle's still at the warehouse."

Ariadne pauses, her hand on the door handle. "I'm here until four. Don't you have somewhere to be?"

He shrugs, the casual gesture at odds with his immaculate suit. "Not particularly. This is as good a place to register a fraudulent contracting firm as any other."


	6. Chapter 6

Almost everyone who reviewed (thank you!) wanted to read more dreams, so I shall try to incorporate one per chapter. They will likely be short, fluffy and possibly silly, but I figure we could all do with a few more demented bunnies in the world.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Ariadne slips into her seat just in the nick of time. Professor Miles gives her a disapproving look that she understands all too well; disappointment mixed with relief that she hasn't sunk in too deep yet. She really should tell him about her resolution to finish her degree, but there never seems to be enough time, not even when five minutes could last an hour.

When the lecture starts, she finds her mind wandering back to her last lesson with Arthur. It had been his turn to create the dream. After the first few, they'd agreed on a system of equivalent exchange so that neither of them would be at a disadvabtage. She'd just dicovered his favourite colour (pine green - she'd rolled her eyes at the specificity typical of the point man) so he'd taken her into his own dream.

* * *

"I like this place," Ariade laughs the moment she opens her eyes. Arthur's built a typical Paris shopping street of small boutiques, perfect for window shopping. And judging from the displays in the store fronts, she guesses that each and every business is dedicated to the sole purpose of manufacturing and selling scarves.

"A familiar environment makes the subconscious feel safer," Arthur tells her with a perfectly straight face.

"And what about familiarity for the dreamer? Or are you telling me that you freqeuntly shop for women's scarves?"

"My comfort comes second. The subconscious is always the most important part of the dream."

"And what can you tell from mine?" she asks, curious to see what he'll come up with this time.

"I can tell that scarves must really make you feel safe," he replies.

"Why?"

"Because I can figure you out without talking to a single projection."

The architect cranes her neck around but can find no blatant signs anywhere, unless it's that all the projections are extraordinarily content. "How?" she demands.

Arthur smiles. "Pay attention to the atmosphere. See how everyone's so cheerful?" She nods. "Your subconscious has created an ideal world from the environment provided by the dreamer. And if you look closely, you'll notice something very odd about your ideal world."

She's still puzled. "I don't see anything wrong with it."

"Well, you wouldn't. It's _your_ ideal. But to an outsider, it's obvious." He gestures at the projections walking up and down the street, browsing the stores. "The men in your ideal world must have fantastic razors to all be so clean shaven."

The moment Arthur points it out, the fact leaps out at her. None of the male population in the dream have a strand of facial hair, from the pubescent teenagers to the white haired men holding their grandchildren's hands.

"So you really dislike men who don't shave," Arthur murmurs. "That's an interesting prejudice."

Ariadne can feel the heat creeping up her neck and tugs her scarf a little higher. "You'd hate it too if your grandfather made you do chores by scrubbing your face with his porcupine of a beard," she replies, the spark in her eyes daring him to laugh.

He nods solemnly. "That's a perfectly understandable reason."

She scowls at the the flash of amusement in his dark eyes and refuses to speak to the point man for the rest of the dream.

* * *

When the bell rings for freedom, she's halfway out the door before Professor Miles calls her back. He waits for the room to empty before he attacks her without preamble.

"How's the job going?"

Ariadne fiddles with her grandmother's scarf, which she's still wearing despite Arthur's comments. "Good," she says finally. "The mark – "

He holds up a hand. "I don't want to hear details. The less I know the better; that way I can't be tempted to turn you in if some corporation suddenly goes bankrupt."

"It's nothing like that," she assures him. "Nowhere near as large a scale."

"Little things have a habit of turning up significantly larger consequences," he replies. "Never underestimate the power of details."

Ariadne grins at the familiar words. "You sound like Arthur talking about projections."

Her professor shakes his head dejectedly. "Has he been teaching you extraction?"

"Yes."

"I was hoping he wouldn't try to corrupt you. Take some advice from an old man and stick to creating marvels with that big brain."

She thinks back to the hours (minutes, she reminds herself) spent dreaming, digging into Arthur's subconscious and watching him interrogate her own projections, and she realizes suddenly that despite the accompanying nightmares, she would miss it if it were to all suddenly disappear.

"I like it," she declares, a hint of defiance in her tone.

"So do I, Ariadne, but that doesn't mean it's right. Stealing is still stealing, even if there's nothing solid to show for it."

They stand there, teacher and protégé, both understanding the other but neither one willing to bend their own philosophy.

"Some people – " Ariadne starts.

"Deserve to be stolen from," Professor Miles finishes. "A sort of modern Robin Hood. But who are we to say that one man is evil and another, good? In the extraction business, there's no difference between your targets and your employees."

Part of Ariadne, the part that indulges in scarves and honeydew ice cream, is swayed by his argument, has in fact, thought of it already, while the larger, architect part of her mind points out that someone has to do the job, so why not her? The stealing and its aftermath don't particularly appeal to her, but at the same time, she knows that she will never lose the need for pure creation, for paradoxes, for absurdly convoluted dreams within dreams within dreams. Extraction is the only drug that could ever fuel her addiction.

Professor Miles watches her carefully and lets out a sigh. "I won't make you stop – I'm not your father and even if I was, you're too old for me to have any control over you. But be careful that you don't lose yourself in it. Don't forget about the reality that's waiting for you."

"Don't worry, I won't be like Cobb and M –" She halts. "I'm sorry, I didn't – "

He waves away her apology. "No need to be sorry, it's the truth. Arthur told you about my daughter, did he?"

Ariadne nods shamefacedly. "He said you didn't want any of your students dreaming because of…what happened."

"He's a smart man, Arthur," he replies, settling back into his chair. "If you don't change your mind about this career, stick to him. Eames too. They're the best in the world at what they do."

"I don't think that I could stick to both of them at the same time," she muses, gladly siezing the opportunity to move on to a lighter topic. "They don't exactly get along very well."

Professor Miles chuckles. "They get along much better than you think. Of course, they need the occasional break from each other, but the two of them have been working together as long as I've known them."

"How long have you known them?" Ariadne asks, curious to learn something more substantial about the men she dreams with. "They never talk about it."

"Longer than I've known my son-in-law. Mal met them first, studying for her Master's degree at Cambridge."

She can practically see his eyes glazing over at the reminiscence of his dead and buried daughter. At this moment, she feels more pity for Mal than she's ever experienced for anyone – not for the shade of Cobb's projections, but the living, breathing woman that Arthur had once described as lovely.

"Arthur was at the university too," he continues, "a few years behind her. They were part of a group of students experimenting with the idea of multiple subconscious."

"_Multiple_ subconscious?"

"The problem with dreaming was always that only one person could project their subconscious into the dream at a time," he explains. "Which wasn't a problem for extraction, but it made patient conducted group therapy impossible, until a team at the Harbin Institute of Technology in China developed a sedative that allowed multiple people's projections to coexist."

"What happened?" Ariadne asks. She's never heard Arthur mention any of this before, eithe in his lessons on the subconscious or his rare references to his own life.

Professor Miles shrugs. "Nothing. They found that with more than one subconscious, the dream became too unstable for the dreamer to sustain. The targets were able to alter the environment to suit their own preferences, which defeated the whole point of therapy, so the project was dropped."

"And Mal and Arthur were involved in this?"

"The program lasted just under the two years that Mal was there," he replies.

"And what about Eames?" she asks, finding it hard to imagine the restless, spelling challenged forger cooped up in a laboratory at Cambridge.

The professor frowns. "No, he already knew Arthur when Mal met them. I never found out how the two of them met, though. When Arthur graduated, he and Eames came to Paris to try and convince Mal to join their team." He pauses, a wistful expression in his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if she'd agreed to it. I will say one thing for extraction, which is that it makes the lines between dreams and reality much clearer."

"How so?" Ariadne asks. She's always been under the impression that the more jobs you complete, the more dreams you go into, the harder the distinction becomes.

"Because dreaming becomes a job. You stop obsessing over it as much because you know it will always be there. Reality becomes a welcome break from dreaming rather than the other way around. It becomes the best job in the world, but it's still a job."

"Then why didn't Mal accept the offer?"

He closes his eyes as if pained by the answer. "I wouldn't let her. She was already engaged to Dom by that time – I wanted her to have a normal life, free of conscious dreaming. It didn't take much to convince her to stay. She and Dom were inseparable."

Ariadne doesn't find this hard to believe. Mal's determination to take Cobb with her in death and Cobb's own inability to let her go had told her that much already. Whatever else their relationship might have been lacking in, they certainly hadn't been short of loyalty.

"Arthur and Eames stayed for the wedding," the professor continues. She wonders how long he's kept all of this bottled up inside, waiting for the right moment to pour it all out as a warning (but against what?). "And then they disappeared. They came back to visit every few months. Mal used to love those visits, hearing about all the crazy things they'd done in the dream world. I don't know when she and Dom started experimenting themselves…"

He swallows. "Afterwards, Arthur offered Dom a job extracting. He was a natural, of course, just like you. They were the best pair in the business, with the occasional help from Eames and some half rate architect. Dom, I think, hated it - the dreaming reminded him too much of Mal, and he was always more of an architect. But Arthur and Eames – I don't think they would ever even consider a different career."

There's a sudden soft knock and Ariadne jumps, having momentarily forgotten that she's still at the university. Arthur is standing at the door and she immediately feels guilty. The clock above the doorway reads four nineteen.

"I thought you might be here," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "You never did like your office."

"No place to think in that broom cupboard," Professor Miles replies as always. He smiles at the point man. "And what brings you here, Arthur?"

"I was looking for Ariadne."

"And you can have her. We're just about done anyway."

"I'm sorry," Ariadne hastens to add. "I was talking to Professor Miles and I just lost track of time – "

Arthur interrupts her rambling apology. "Don't worry about it. I really don't have anywhere to be, and I've been meaning to talk to Miles for awhile now." He switches his gaze to the professor. "How's Dom?" Ariadne notices it's the first time he's ever referred to his old partner by more than his surname (unless Mr. Charles counted, and somehow, she doubts it does).

"The same as always," he answers. "But why don't you ask him yourself?"

"He hangs up everytime I try to call him. I don't think he wants to be reminded of what happened anymore, not now that he's got his family back." Arthur's impassive voice slips just a little and Ariadne hears an undercurrent of bitterness in it, which puzzles her a little because he never seems to miss his former partner's presence. And judging from the professor's story, he was probably closer to Mal anyways.

"I'll tell him you asked," Professor Miles promises. "I'll be going back to America after this school year is over."

"What – You're leaving?" Ariande croaks, her voice accidentally pitching itself an octave higher than normal.

"Yes, I think I'm finally ready for retirement." He gives her a fond smile. "You'll be my last, greatest achievement. I hope you build something real to name after me."

"I…Of course."

"Good girl." He pulls a stack of essays towards him. She notices that hers (the only handwritten one of the lot) is on top and feels a sudden rush of affection for Arthur and his odd obsession with Salvador Dali. "Well, don't let me keep you. Go do something useful that will keep you alive so you can keep dreaming. And Arthur, try not to kill off my architect, eh? I don't want my life's work flushed down the drain."

Arthur smiles, a true, full smile that completely changes his appearance. He looks years younger. "I'll try my best."

Professor Miles chuckles. "Coming from you, that's as good as a lifetime warranty." He picks up his pen and starts to add red marks to her essay and she understands that they've been dismissed.

"Is he really retiring?" Ariadne asks Arthur the moment they're out of earshot of the professor.

"He's been talking about it since Philippa was born, but I think he means it this time," he replies. "What did he mean by building something real?"

"He was trying to talk me out of the job," she explains. "He said that stealing is stealing, no matter what you call it."

"And what did you say?"

"That I like it." She shields her eyes with her hand as they step from the shady recesses of the university into the bright Parisian afternoon. "He told me about how you met Mal too."

Ariadne scrutinizes the point man's features carefully, but it remains a blank slate as always. The most she notices is a slight movement of his left eyebrow, but she suspects that it's more due to the tiny fruit fly hovering over it than anything she's said.

"I suppose that's only fair," Arthur murmurs. "I told you his life story, so he tells you mine." (She resists the urge to point out that it's hardly a life story.)

He unlocks his car with a soft _click_ and holds the passenger door open for her. After she slides in, he pauses for a moment, his hand still resting on the door.

"Some of what Miles says is true, you know – extraction isn't for everyone. You don't have to do this. If you want to back out now, I won't stop you."

"And what about the rest of the team?" Ariadne retorts. She likes to pretend that there _is_ a choice, that she can still choose to lead a regular life. But that choice had been forfeited the moment she'd read the words on her blueprint.

_7 p.m. Same place._

It's one thing to be locked out, but quite another to lock herself out. Self resolve has never been her strong suit.

"None of us is going to make you do anything you aren't one hundred percent sure about," Arthur tells her seriously.

But sitting there with Arthur's dark eyes boring into her, Ariadne realizes with a certainty of one hundred and fifty-nine percent just what Professor Miles had been warning her against. Not the evils of extraction, but the consequences of becoming another Mal, of being presented with two poisons and choosing the wrong one.

She pulls the car door from Arthur's loose grip and slams it shut. "I'm the best architect there is," she informs him through the open window. "So like it or not, you're stuck with me."

For once, Arthur's body betrays him and for a split second, she sees his features soften with relief before the emotion vanishes, leaving only the trace of a smile behind.


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. This chapter is a little choppy and, I think, _blegh_, but hopefully, it will make the next few chapters flow better.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Contracting firms, Ariadne discovers during the car ride back to the warehouse, are absurdly easy to fake. In the two short hours she spent at Professor Miles' lecture, Arthur has already registered and provided a detailed history for their own firm. Whether it's because of his extraordinary talent or just lax French laws, she isn't quite sure, but the fact remains that she and Eames are due to visit Frechette's godfather in two days.

"I booked the earliest date possible so you could have enough time to build the model and teach it to us," Arthur explains.

"I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to pull off a believable contractor guise in just two days," Ariadne confesses. "I know nothing about it."

"Don't worry, Eames will cover for you. Leave the talking to him," he advises. "Focus on taking in everything you see, especially the details. Intricacies in familiar objects tend to stand out more than the bigger picture."

"Is that a psychology thing?" she teases.

He almost smiles. "Could be."

The remainder of the ride passes in relative silence to the soundtrack of a faded, sepia tune (he calls it _Softly As In A Morning Sunrise). _Ariadne finds herself actually enjoying the point man's mute company; the customary need to fill the air with words and phrases has all but disappeared. With her affirmation to stick to the job, it's as if a barrier of uncertainty has collapsed between them. She's never been aware of its existence, but not that it's gone, it's suddenly that much easier to breathe.

She takes the opportunity to study him, really look at him for the first time and try and see more than just a collared shirt and slicked back hair. If Arthur notices her side glances and the occasional downright stare, he doesn't say anything.

In the short time it takes to drive from the university back to the warehouse, Ariadne discovers a number of things she's never noticed about the point man, little things that have never been given the time or the opportunity to surface. They are impossible to describe – mannerisms and depth and a million other things in between, but they all fit in so perfectly that Ariadne knows she will never mistake them as belonging to someone else.

"Looks like Eames is back," Arthur observes as he parks his own inconspicuous vehicle behind the electric blue, low-riding convertible blocking the warehouse's back entrance. He jilts its side view mirror when they squeeze past to get inside and makes no attempt to reposition said mirror.

The offending forger is deep asleep in a lawn chair beside Yusuf's desk, an IV drip dangling from his slack grasp. The chemist looks up from his monitor at the sound of the door sliding closed and waves them over.

"I've just finished my sedative," he tells them excitedly. "Provides a crystal clear dream, but when the target wakes up, they'll only remember some hazy, nonsensical dream provided by their own subconscious. It's great for providing a cover."

"Does it work?" Ariadne asks.

"Works fine on me. I've already tried it out once on Eames today with excellent results. This is his second time. He should be done any minute now."

Sure enough, barely thirty seconds later, Eames' eyes blink open and he sits up groggily.

"I see the two you are back from wherever you disappeared off to this time," he murmurs the moment he catches sight of Arthur and Ariadne standing above him. "I had a dream about you," he continues, nodding at the point man. "Or at least my subconscious tells me I did. You were getting ready to fly off the top of the Bloody Tower wearing a Big Bird costume. Pity it didn't actually happen. Let me know if you decide to try again – I'd love to get a picture."

"You'll be the first to know," Arthur promises.

Yusuf, busy jotting down numbers and graphs, is above all the banter. "Excellent. All the readings of your brain activity indicate that you actually had a lucid dream, so the sedative is working perfectly." He turns to Arthur and Ariadne. "I want to run a few trials with each of you, just to make sure it works the same on everyone."

"I'll go first," Ariadne volunteers, rolling up her right sleeve. "Arthur and Eames can go figure out how in the world they're going to turn me into a contractor."

"Contractor? Who's going to believe that slip of a girl could be a contractor?"

"I'll explain later," Arthur mutters, pulling the confused forger to his own desk.

Ariadne lies back in the chair Eames just vacated and listens to Yusuf talk as he wires her to the sensors on his desk. "Once the dream starts, I want you to build – change the dream as much as you can. Only your own subconscious will be in there, so there's nothing to worry about. When you wake up, you should hopefully remember nothing of it." He attaches a new needle to the tube of sedative and swabs her arm with a cool, cotton ball drenched in alcohol. "Ready?"

She nods. He slides the needle into a blue-green vessel that stands out clearly against the pale skin of her inner wrist and she in turn slides into unconsciousness.

* * *

She's in the middle of a large square with not much in it besides towering mounds of rubble that are spewing dust into the cloudless sky. A few projections idle listlessly against the piles of stone and glass, all of them seemingly unperturbed by their surroundings. Ariadne, however, can't stand to see so much space and materials going to waste, so she immediately sets to work raising structures from the ground with her mind.

A glittering, glass palace emerges first, assembled from the shards of empty bottles. She models it after the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, which has always been one of her favourites. A more abstract structure follows, all chrome and black marble slabs, arranged into crystalline patterns balanced on an impossible base. She never has to worry about foundations or budgets here; she simply has to dream and the visions become real.

The projections ignore her as she transforms the rubbish heaps into extravagant buildings, aware that she is the dreamer. Even when her creations become more and more wild, they give her little more than the odd glance. Soon, she's carving bridges and bending buildings over each other again, relishing the sensation of playing god for as long as it lasts, all the more because she knows she won't remember any of it when she wakes.

He finds her as she's constructing a park, impeccably dressed as always. Her stomach clenches in fear when she sees him approaching but she forces herself to remain exactly where she is. After all, she reasons, he's only her projection.

"Hello Ariadne."

Ariadne blanches. The greeting is definitely not a good sign. She has to remind herself to breathe when he steps closer, taking in her handiwork.

"I like what you've done, but don't you think Frechette will get suspicious if he sees people walking upside down?" projection-Arthur asks, pointing at the folded over city around her.

"Well, that's why it isn't for him," she replies. It feels silly talking to her own subconscious, but she feels rude ignoring him.

"Then why waste time building it?"

"Because…"

The architect stops, unsure how to continue. How did you explain to your own subconscious the exact nature of your fascination with dreaming, all while it pretended to be someone else?

She coughs and starts again. "Because I like it," she answers, aware of how ridiculous her words sound, even to her own ears.

"I see."

She can tell he's not impressed by her answer, but she doesn't care. Every moment spent talking to this shade of Arthur is one more moment of creation lost. She takes his further silence as permission to ignore him and returns her concentration to building a glamorous water fountain to top off her park.

The projection is perfect, displaying not a single emotion as he – _it – _follows her into the corners of her dream, sometimes commenting on her creations, other times simply standing on the outskirts. She becomes accustomed to its presence and, lost in dreaming, soon forgets the fear that had permeated through her at its appearance. It returns full fledge, however, when she suddenly finds herself looking down the barrel of a gun with no idea how she got there. Her last thought before it fires is relief that, assuming Yusuf's sedative works (and there's no reason why it shouldn't - the man is as much a genius in his own right as she is), she won't remember all this when she wakes.

* * *

"What happened?" Yusuf demands the moment she opens her eyes and shoots up into a sitting position, heart racing. "All your readings just skyrocketed."

Ariadne opens her mouth to tell him some nonsense about being attacked by pigeons that she vaguely seems to remember, but closes it when she sees Arthur and Eames from the corner of her eye, bickering at the far end of the warehouse. With an impact not unlike a tsunami, she recalls the feel of cold metal against her skin and the even colder glint in Arthur's gaze when he pulls the trigger. She opens her mouth to tell Yusuf about the glitch in the sedative, only to check her voice immediately at the thought of what the cautious point man will do if he finds out about her dreams; he'll never allow her to go with them on the job. So she closes her mouth again, giving the overall impression of a particularly dimwitted goldfish.

"Um…I remember something about a pigeon attack," she replies at last.

"Hmmm…"

Ariadne nearly blushes at the chemist's monosyllabic response. She knows this particular _hmmm _well, her grandmother having used it often whenever she thought she was being told something that was less than the absolute truth.

"You're sure you don't remember anything?" Yusuf insists. "Nothing besides pigeons?"

"Nothing," she repeats, trying her best to appear the picture of a lost, wide-eyed, innocent little girl. After a few seconds of intense scrutiny, Yusuf buys the act and turns to his monitors.

"I don't understand that peak at the end," he mutters more to himself. "All the readings were fine, and then suddenly…It's like you died, but the subconscious would never attack itself…"

Araidne untangles herself from the tubes and wires and takes advantage of Yusuf's preoccupation to zero the timer, which indicates another eleven seconds left to her dream. No need to leave any incriminating evidence behind.

She makes her way back to her own desk on slightly shaky legs. The dilapidated desk chair that she's been nagging Arthur to replace has never felt more comfortable as it supports her drooping form. Half completed models and a scalpel await the architect exactly where she left them, but she has neither the energy nor the motivation to pick them up. Instead, Ariadne finds herself curling up with her spinning head cushioned between her hands.

She'd assumed that the feeling of ease with Arthur in the car would naturally extend to her dreams. She'd even been looking forward to falling asleep, eagerly anticipating an Arthur-free dream, or at least one where he would feature in a more pleasant role. But it seems she'd been wrong to expect things to be different. If anything, the latest dream worries her a dozen times more than her nightmares of the past few days. For the most part, she'd only been scared for her sanity before, but now she wonders what it means that Arthur's popping up unannounced into her dreams through her subconscious. And it wasn't even the man that she knows – she'd have nothing against _his_ appearance – but a mocking facsimile that could never recreate all the facets of his personality.

She swallows hard, eerily reminded of Mal shaking the bars of her prison within Cobb's mind. But Arthur wouldn't be the same, would he? She can't imagine the pristinely dressed point man, even a shadow of him, smouldering away in the recesses of her mind. Then again, she can't picture him holding a gun to her head either, and her projection had done just that. So maybe he isn't that far from becoming another Mal.

The thought of Arthur becoming a twisted and feared thing in her mind makes Ariadne sick and she has to force back the bile rising to her mouth. There must be something wrong with her subconscious to change someone so wholly perfect into an unrelenting monster – she definitely can't be completely sane.

She thinks of the anonymous help billboards posted along all of Paris' major bridges – but who would believer her? The only people who can help her are in this dingy warehouse and she can't tell any one of them. Not Yusuf or Eames, and certainly not Arthur himself. They'd make her leave, force her to forget about the job and focus on the real world for the time being. And that time would turn into weeks and months and years of waiting for a day that would never come. College would turn into internment, which in turn would become a job of a different kind, where the best reward she could ever hope for would be a window office with a few withering plants in the corner. There would be no more creation, no more dreaming, no more paradoxes, no more wobbly second-hand furniture in a dimly lit warehouse of questionable history, no more gel and spearmint. As certain as she is that she would prefer to never see projection-Arthur again, she would rather face his polished gun a hundred times over than risk never seeing the real, flesh and bone Arthur, and Eames and Yusuf. Because as much as she loves dreaming, reality would always be better.

When Arthur and Eames finally stop arguing long enough to fill her in on just how she's going to pass herself off as a seasoned contractor, Ariadne is back to chiselling away at linoleum models with a scalpel in each hand and her bishop tipped over beside her.


	8. Chapter 8

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. Over 100! *Faint*

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Despite all her resolutions not to, Ariadne enters her next shared dream with Arthur rather reluctantly, a fact which he picks up on almost instantly. When she tries to rise from the park bench that's just materialized under them, he pulls her back down.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she lies, doing her best to imitate the point man's usual controlled voice. He doesn't buy it.

"Is this the same nothing that was worrying you and Eames?" he demands, his tone devoid of the soft edges she's become used to. She understands that, at this moment, their world is purely business. "Two nothings in only three days seems like it must be something to me."

"Well then, you're wrong." Ariadne snaps, and immediately regrets it. Her irritation with Arthur draws the attention of his projections in their corner of the park, all of whom pause in the midst of what they're doing to stare at her. They back off when Arthur shifts closer and tugs her hand into his, but she swears that the ice cream vendor is still stalking her from the corner of his eye.

"You're attracting too much attention to yourself," he hisses, as if she can't see that much for herself.

"Maybe you should stop provoking me," she mutters back, simultaneously trying to ignore the ice cream man's unblinking stare and the warmth emanating from Arthur's hand, not to mention the nudge of his leg against hers. The latter, she finds, is significantly harder.

"Only if you give me a reason to," Arthur replies. "If you'd rather work on Eames' projections, you're welcome to. Just tell me."

"Eames?" She nearly laughs, although if she _was_ in Eames' subconscious, she'd feel a lot more at ease. The thought sobres her. "This has nothing to do with Eames at all."

"So you admit there's something wrong."

Ariadne pulls away and jumps up, face pink at having been caught so easily for the second time. "We're wasting time," she declares, choosing to ignore the expression on Arthur's face that clearly says he's not finished interrogating her. "We're here to work."

She hurries off to the opposite side of the park before he can pull her back again, peeved by what a failure she is at evading his suspicions. The entire dream feels like a collision between the umbrella decked place across from the university and her favourite childhood park back home in Moncton. Arthur's subconscious swarms everywhere, pushing strollers and walking dogs. She allows herself a brief moment imagining Arthur on all fours chasing after squirrels and chewing tennis balls before concentrating on selecting a suitable projection.

In all her dreams with Arthur, besides the overly talkative, she's been warned against the too friendly, the self-volunteering, the eccentric and everything in between. In other words, anyone too out of the ordinary was only good for extracting relatively useless bits and pieces of background information, which seem to be the only things she's found so far. This time, however, Ariadne is determined to find something more substantial about the point man, if only to repay him for the unnerving touch of his hand.

She settles eventually on a middle-aged woman sitting under the shade of a giant beech with her nose buried in a cheap paperback romance and a mass of fluffy, golden fur snoring loudly at her feet. She looks up at the sound of Ariadne's cough.

"Yes?"

The architect shuffles a little and shoves her hands into her pockets, trying to appear suitably uncomfortable. She tries to keep everything Arthur has taught her at the back of her mind: causal small talk, no sudden moves, follow the projection's lead, and above all, never talk for too long. Just for good measure, she coughs again before speaking.

"I couldn't help but notice your dog from across the park. Could I…um…pet it?"

The woman's expression immediately changes from one of polite annoyance to complacency. "Oh, of course! Go ahead."

Ariadne sinks to her knees and scratches the mass. It rolls over, exposing a head and legs which wave with enthusiasm. "It's a golden retriever, isn't it?" she asks.

"She's a cross between a golden retriever and a German Shepard," the woman replies. "Her name's Jenna."

"My friend had a dog just like her once - she called him Ptolemy. How long have you had Jenna?"

"Four, almost five years. I've had her since she was born."

"So you trained her yourself?" Ariadne asks, moving her fingers to the stomach of the dog, who lets out a bark of ecstasy. "I would never have the patience for that."

"Oh, I agree. But my husband's a dog breeder – he trains them for police use, and every so often, he'll keep one of the puppies."

"You must have a lot of dogs."

"One for each of our kids, and we've got four of them," the woman laughs. "You can imagine the state of our house. Jenna's my son's, but he's at school right now, so I thought I'd take her out for some air."

Ariadne senses that as the woman speaks, a few more projections are looking her way than usual. The woman must have told her something important. She stores the tidbit of information for later perusal and carefully slows her scratching to a soothing rub on Jenna's back. Within moments, the dog looks ready to start snoring again.

"I think I've put her to sleep," she says, standing up and brushing bits and pieces of grass from her legs. "Thank you, though. She's a lovely dog."

"It was no problem at all," the woman assures her. "Jenna loves to be scratched – you've probably just made her day."

Ariadne smiles and, brain whirring to make sense of what she's heard, strolls back to where Arthur is still sitting on the bench. The ice cream vendor, she notices with a silent sigh of relief, has moved his cart on to another part of the park and is busy haggling with a customer.

"You look pleased," Arthur comments as she sits down, eyeing her satisfied smile. "Stopped worrying about nothing?"

She ignores his jibe. "Did your father work for the police?"

She has to applaud his ability to keep a poker face at her announcement and as she runs through the details of how she arrived at her conclusion.

"That is…quite impressive," he murmurs when she finishes. "You'll have no problems tackling Frechette."

"So it's true?" Ariadne demands. At the moment, she can't care less about their target, not with Arthur's mind flowing around her, spraying out jagged explosions of information like a paint-filled balloon pierced by a well-aimed dart.

"Yes. My father was a detective with the NYPD."

He clasps and unclasps his hands repeatedly as he speaks. Ariadne is struck by how easily the point man can talk about Frechette and Cobb and Professor Miles compared with the effort it takes to answer a simple question about himself.

"_Was_…What happened to him?" she asks curiously, swinging her legs and trying to appear casual, as if they're just having another conversation about projections.

Arthur closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with both hands. "I don't know. We don't really get along very well, not with my line of work. As far as I know, he's still there."

"Were you close to him?"

He shakes his head a fraction of an inch. "He was never home much and he disowned me when I took up dreaming. I haven't heard from him since."

The words are nearly as impassive as ever, cold, blunt and efficient with no room for flowery descriptions and just a hint of bitterness. She wonders how he manages it when even _her_ heart is beating faster at the picture he's sketched in her mind. His closed eyes and lowered head are the only signs that anything is out of the ordinary.

"If it helps, I'm sure he regrets it," Ariadne offers.

"It doesn't, but thank you."

She's unsure what to say next, so she cautiously places one small hand on his arm. The muscles under his shirt sleeve tense momentarily before he slowly relaxes against her palm.

"You'll be fine with Frechette," Arthur repeats after a moment. His dark eyes still look a little wary, but his vocie and posture are back to their normal composure.

She nods in acknowledgement and they sit in silence until time runs out and the dream fades away, her hand still on his arm.

* * *

Ariadne opens her eyes to see Eames' face floating above her.

"Awake, are you? I was considering pulling the plug but I didn't want to interrupt whatever the two of you were up to. But on second thought, maybe I should have," he says, spotting Ariadne's expression and Arthur's lack of it. "Did someone die?"

"No," the architect replies immediately. She shudders to think the state she'd be in if someone _had _died. Not nearly as calm, for one thing, although she's flustered enough. And dead, because there would be no way to hide her dreams from Arthur then, and he would kill her a second time for not telling him earlier.

"Well, you look more uptight than most people do at their own funerals," Eames observes. "Which is more or less Arthur's usual state, but I expected better from you."

"Thanks Eames. I feel really enlightened now."

The forger frowns at her. "You're spending way too much time with that man. You even _sound_ like him. What's up with him anyways? He's not usually this untalkative," he adds as Arthur pulls the needle from his arm with rather more force than necessary and goes to his desk with only a brief smile at her and nothing for the forger.

"Bad dream," Ariadne murmurs. "I extracted something that I don't think I was supposed to."

"That's the sign of a first rate thief – always take more than you need." Eames claps her on the shoulder and she nearly tips over under the weight. She reminds herself yet again to eat, sleep and stretch more, even if it's unlikely that she'll grow any taller at twenty-four. "Come on, we have to get going. Let's see if I can't knock the Arthur from your system before we're done."

"Where are we going?" she asks, jogging after him out the door (Arthur stares intently at his computer when she passes).

"That must've been one hell of a dream for you to be so absentminded. Frechette's godfather, remember?" He opens the door of his convertible for her and jumps in through the window himself. "We're supposed to be at his estate in an hour and he doesn't live close."

The words jolt another memory and she looks down in dismay at her paint splattered jeans. "I left my clothes at home."

Eames laughs at her expression. "I can see Arthur hasn't infected you with his compulsive need to organize yet."

"I_ am _organized," she retorts. "And Arthur hasn't infected me with anything." Besides a pathological need to dream about him, but that's besides the point.

"Well, I can't have you walking into the largest estate in France looking like that."

He twists the steering wheel and the car abruptly turns in the other direction, speeding past the _One Way_ sign and nearly missing a parking meter. They pull up at the university's off campus graduate dormitory in a record six minutes and twelve seconds, having blown more speed limits than Ariadne cared to count along the way. If this was Eames' idea of purging the dream from her system, it had certainly worked. Clutching the seat until her knuckles cracked didn't exactly leave much room for thinking.

Mercifully, he doesn't ask to go in with her – she has no doubts that he'd laugh at the mess in her room. She passes half a dozen people on her way in, all of whom give her strange looks she can't quite comprehend. When she steps into her own fifth floor room, she barely has time to close the door before she's hit on the head by an orange blur of a cushion. Her roommate, Ailin Hillier, German literature, watches her gleefully from the window.

"What have I done now?" Ariadne sighs wearily, thinking of the unmade bed she'd left in her hurry to get to the warehouse that morning. Sure enough, the blankets are folded and the pillows plumped now, all with a care that screams of Ailin.

Ailin herself, however, doesn't even glance at the bed. "You know that this is the second time in the same day that you've been in a highly expensive car, right?" she asks, eyeing the architect carefully.

"My bike has a flat tire," Ariadne explains, already digging into her closet for her one and only pair of dress pants and a pair of shoes with heels and no holes in them. "I haven't had time to get it fixed yet."

"So you left in one car and decided to come back in another one?"

"Sure," she replies, humouring her roommate while she concentrates on the altogether more difficult task of smoothing out the wrinkles on her shirt.

"And now you're worrying about your clothes," Ailin continues in disbelief.

"I guess I am." Ariandne pulls off her socks and tugs on the heels. "How do people walk in these?"

Her question is drowned out by Ailin, who practically jumps on her.

"I don't believe it! Two years without so much as a date, and now you've got two at once! So, which one do you like better?"

"What?" Ariadne pushes the bouncing girl off, horrified. "No, you've got it all wrong, I work with them!"

Ailin rolls her eyes. "Please Ariadne, not even architects work on Saturdays. Anyway, the last time I checked, you didn't even have a job and now you're telling me you work with guys who can afford luxury cars? I might not be as smart as you, but I'm not stupid either."

"Believe what you want, it's the truth," Ariadne responds, grabbing a pen and notebook from the desk and stuffing them unceremoniously into her bag.

"You're just in denial," Ailin insists, watching her with the calm, distant expression so infuriating to someone scrambling for last minute necessities. "Personally, I'd go with the one from this morning," she continues. "I really like the whole fifties, three-piece suits look. Hey, if you change your mind about him, can you introduce me?"

"No," Ariadne snaps. "He's leaving the country."

"I could do long distance," her roommate muses. "When did you say he's leaving?"

"I didn't, but I'm leaving right now if you keep up with this."

"You could just _say_ you fancy him. There's no need to be so offended."

"I'm not," Ariadne replies through gritted teeth, her patience wearing thin. "And for the last time, I work with him."

"Right. Well, have fun _working._"

Ailin gives her a maddening wave and smile as she slams the door shut and climbs down the five flights of stairs. Even though her feet are already hurting, Ariadne is determined that next time, she'll walk home from work.

* * *

**Cough cough - Speech time!**  
I couldn't resist giving Ariadne the clueless, teasing, but somewhat lovable roommate that comes with university dorms and makes life just a little weirder. Hopefully, she will make a reappearance with a more prominent role - I like her. I will probably get sued for this, but I stole her name from two kids at camp.

Jenna is the reincarnation of a friend's dog, also called Jenna, who was the coolest, friendliest and superlativiest dog/pillow ever. Thanks for all the memories, good, bad and mediocre. R.I.P.


	9. Chapter 9

Once again, thanks to all reviewers. This chapter was written in a record two hours to the accompaniment of summer's first thunderstorm and Godspeed You! Black Emperor.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan. I also stole some names from The Prestige.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

"What took you so long?" Eames demands when Ariadne trips her way back to the car, decked out in uncomfortable business attire. "Did you have to get that outfit custom made?"

"No," she replies, fastening her seatbelt tightly. "My roommate held me up."

"Ah, the infuriating roommate." Eames nods wisely. "Can't live with them, can't live without them."

"I thought that was women," Ariadne points out.

"It all comes down to pretty much the same thing. They hold you up, so your chauffeur has to really step on the gas and smash more than a few speed limits to get you where you need to be on time. I would hold on," he advises.

She doesn't need to be told twice.

They pull up at the front gates of the estate just as the LCD flickers to 2:00, windswept and out of breath despite having moved perhaps a total of only two inches. A mechanical voice buzzes them into the grassy, landscaped grounds. Ariadne thinks inexplicably of the Jane Austen movies Ailin always makes her watch and which she secretly adores.

"Remember to notice everything," Eames murmurs to her as he parks the car in front of the immense stone mansion and they walk up the flagged marble steps. "Leave the talking to me." He gives her one last wink before lifting his finger to the bell.

The ornate cherry wood door swings wide after one ring, opened by a tall, faceless man in what looks like livery, who's only distinguishing feature is the thin, curled moustache adorning his upper lip. Ariadne nearly gags at the living cliché staring down at her. It doesn't help when he opens his mouth and speaks with perfect French mannerisms.

"Monsieur Borden, I believe? From Cutter and Sons Contracting?" He stares coldly at Ariadne. "And this must be…"

"My secretary, Mademoiselle Angier," Eames replies smoothly, and she's surprised to hear that his English accent is gone, replaced by a lilting Irish one that she immediately falls in love with. "We have an appointment with Monsieur Caligiuri?"

"Yes, of course. This way, please."

He leads them into a spacious entrance hall with gothic arches that soar up well over four metres. The walls are dark paneled wood hung with a few Impressionist paintings that Ariadne suspects are originals. At the end of the room, two grand staircases that remind her of _Titanic_ spiral up to the second floor. A well-built man in a navy suit stands partially up the right one, his thick iron-grey hair the only indication of his sixty odd years. He walks down the last few steps and approaches them with his hand outstretched.

"Monsieur Borden, thank you for coming." His voice is clipped, with a hint of steel. He sounds like a man who did not like to be messed with. "I understand this is very short notice for a firm of your calibre, but my schedule is booked solid."

"It's no problem at all," Eames replies, shaking the offered hand. "We completely understand that our customers have busy schedules."

"And we appreciate your understanding." Caligiuri turns to Ariadne. "And this lovely young lady is…"

"My secretary, Mademoiselle Angier," Eames introduces. "She won't be any trouble, she'll just take a few notes so I can talk to you more freely."

"Of course, of course. Let's get started then. If you'll just follow me this way. Jacques, the keys please."

The unfortunately named butler hurries forwards with a ring of jangling keys, looking so like a black and white film that Ariadne has to fight back a most uncharacteristic giggle. She manages to keep a straight face and follows the two men into an adjoining room. Jacques, thankfully, remains at the front door.

While Caligiuri and Eames discuss cherubs and mouldings, the architect sketches down everything she sees with swift strokes of her pen. She'd never thought the one minute still life drills from high school art class would come in handy, but she has to admit that it's a useful skill when it comes to scribbling down snapshots of every detail in the room. Eames plays his part perfectly, staying long enough in each room for her to capture each angle but never attracting Caligiuri's suspicion.

As he shows them every nook and cranny in the mansion, Ariadne realizes that Arthur had been right as always when he'd told her that Frechette was extremely close with his godfather. Photographs of the famous architect and his work adorn every room, hanging in hallways or propped up on coffee tables. Occasionally, she spots an abandoned model or a dog-eared copy of _Principia_, items atypical of an elderly tycoon, especially one specializing in black market pharmaceuticals. Even the decor shows signs of the gothic, minimalist designs that had made Frechette famous. If she had any doubts before, she has none now that if there's any place on Earth where Frechette's subconscious would store his innermost secrets, this is it.

It takes the better part of the afternoon and all but the last two pages in Ariadne's notebook plus one and a half fountain pens to return to the room they started in. The sky outside the French windows darkens gradually while Eames puts on a spectacular show, haggling about price and materials with Caligiuri for another three quarters of an hour. By the time they leave with promises that they won't be keeping of a return visit involving catalogues and sketches of prospective designs, it's nearly seven and Ariadne is asleep on her aching feet.

"That went well," Eames comments as they weave through the traffic back to Paris. "Did you get everything you need?"

"Yes," Ariadne murmurs sleepily, flipping through the pages of her sketchpad. "This is going to take ages to build properly."

"The gala is in six days," Eames replies. "So no pressure."

"None at all."

They cruise along in a silence punctured only by the odd muffled yawn from Ariadne until Eames speaks again.

"Are you ever going to tell me what you were dreaming about that day in the warehouse?"

Ariadne freezes halfway through stretching out her arms. In the dim light, she realizes that Eames' serious expression, to a certain extent, resembles Arthur's. She swallows. "It was nothing. Just a nightmare."

"Dreams are never nothing in this business," Eames replies grimly. "Especially not nightmares. Keeping it bottled up isn't going to help anyone."

"It was a stupid dream," she mumbles.

"After my first job, I had a dream that everyone thought I was a grape, so I had to hang on a vine all day long with the other grapes, but I was actually an orange. I doubt you can top that."

Ariadne isn't sure whether he's being serious or not. His face is straight and solemn, devoid of its usual sarcasm. She desperately wants to tell someone_, anyone_, but the fear of being forced to leave holds her back. She shakes her head stubbornly.

"In that case, I can't let you go into the dream with us," Eames states dispassionately.

"What?" She nearly rises from her seat, but a sudden left turn slams her back down. "Why not?" she demands.

"Once you open up your mind to this whole concept of dreaming, your natural dreams are how your subconscious shows itself. If no one knows what's wrong with your subconscious, then you're a danger to yourself and anyone else in the dream. You'll jeopardize all of us. Me, Yusuf, Frechette, _Arthur_." He emphasizes the last name and shivers run down her arms as she remembers a particularly unpleasant dream in which she'd pushed the point man off the Eiffel Tower. She bites her lips nervously.

"And if I tell you?"

"Then we continue as planned. As long as someone knows what you're up to, there's no problem."

"You won't change your mind once I tell you? You won't make me stay behind?"

Eames shakes his head. "Everyone of us knows there are risks to our job. If you want to stay in, then you can. I'm not here to babysit you. You're old enough to make your own decisions."

"Will you tell Arthur?"

The words slip out from between her teeth and hang in the air between them, suspended by a thin thread of trust that could easily be broken at the slightest hint of uncertainty. It's a long time before the forger answers her.

"I thought this might have something to do with him" he mutters, taking his eyes briefly off the road to look at her. "What happened?"

"Will you tell him?" Ariadne repeats.

"Not unless you want me to."

Relief courses through the architect's tiny frame at his answer, the one that she's been hoping for but never really expected. She releases a breath she doesn't remember holding and sits back in her seat, eyes half closed. Now that the moment's come, she isn't sure how to phrase her words.

"I had a dream," she says haltingly, "that I was on a beach with…with Arthur. We were watching the sunrise. And then he…well, he killed me."

She stops and sneaks a peak at the forger's face. It's slightly more revealing than Arthur's and she catches mixtures of concern and amusement flitting across. How he can be amused by her words, she has no idea, but it seems typical of the forger. She sits and waits for an answer that will alleviate her worries but he doesn't say anything and she has to force the word out herself.

"Why?"

Eames raises and lowers one shoulder. "Psychology is more Arthur's area of expertise, but at a guess, I'd say it's because you've got him wound up tenser than an elevator cable."

"_What?_"

He smirks at the confused look in her eyes. "Arthur's usually pretty uptight when it comes to himself, as you've no doubt noticed and chosen to ignore, but since you popped up, he's really exceeded himself. I've met more open clams."

"And this is my fault _how_?" Ariadne demands, indignant.

The forger's grin widens. "Well, you're a very pretty clam girl yourself, Ariadne, and when one clam meets another, they – "

"Never mind, I don't want to know," she interjects hastily, her face a shade darker than her scarlet scarf. "What do clams have to do with my dreams?"

"I was _going_ to say that when clams like Arthur meet other clams, they shut themselves up tighter than a Swiss vault. But evidently, your clam brain has gone way down the gutter."

"Could we please move on from the clam analogies?" the blushing architect mumbles, furious and beginning to regret telling Eames about her dream at all. She should have known he would react like this.

The forger chuckles. "Certainly. The strictly scientific explanation is that the subconscious is afraid of what it doesn't know and that fear likes to manifest itself into axe wielding point men."

"Burt I know Arthur already," she protests. "Or at least better than I knew him during the Fischer job, and I never dreamed about him then."

"Obviously, you don't know him as well as your subconscious would like to," Eames replies. "It probably doesn't help that the two of you spend all day going at each other's projections. That's enough to drive the sanest people off balance."

Ariadne takes a moment to digest the clam-free speech. The explanation seems ridiculously obvious now that he's told her and she wonders how she didn't think of it herself. "So if I get to know Arthur better, the dreams will stop?" she clarifies.

"It depends on how much your subconscious wants to know about him, but that's the general gist of the idea."

She frowns. "And how am I going to do that if he's 'shut up tighter than a Swiss vault'?"

Eames thinks for a moment. "Vodka worked well for me."

Ariadne raises an eyebrow. "Vodka?"

"Arthur holds his liquor well," he explains. "Gin has no effect on him whatsoever."

"I'll keep that in mind," she murmurs, although she has no intention of attempting to intoxicate the point man anytime soon, not unless she's desperate. The forger's advice, however, stirs up another question. "But if you know everything about Arthur, why can't you just tell me and save me the trouble?"

"I could do that," he muses, "but that wouldn't be much fun. I like watching Arthur squirm. In any case, the information might not take and then the dreams would only get worse."

"Why," Ariadne fumes, "does everything about dreaming have to be so complicated? It's got more rules and exceptions than French verbs."

"I don't know about the verbs, but isn't that why you're here?"

She curses the forger for being right. Of course that's why she's here. Quite apart from the joy of creating something entirely new, she loves dreaming for the thrill of its challenges, a sensation she's never felt in the real world. Still, she'd been expecting challenges of the _build a sixty-four square kilometre futuristic city_ variety and not the _pry open a clam before he sends you packing to the psychiatric ward_ kind.

"Don't be so worried," Eames assures her, his voice softening at the slightly panicked look on her face. "He just needs time to think. After he's rationalized everything to himself, he'll be back to being boring old Arthur and it'll be a lot easier to tackle him then."

"That's great, but I don't particularly fancy just sitting here waiting for the dreams to magically disappear," she replies. "I'd rather get them over with."

"In that case, you'll either have to trick him into telling you with plenty of vodka or extract it from him."

"That's what I was trying to do before we left," Ariadne points out. "Didn't turn out so well, as you probably noticed. I think he's still mad at me."

"What did you find out?" Eames asks curiously as they turn onto the side street facing the warehouse's back door.

"That his dad was a cop."

Eames stops the car just behind Arthur's. "Ah. That's always been a sore point for him. But the good news is that the more you get to know him, the better the dreams should become." He opens the door. "Any more questions or pleas for helf before we face the wrath of Arthur?"

"Yes. How come I don't have dreams about you or Yusuf? Or Cobb?"

The forger smirks. "I suspect that it's because your subconscious is only attracted to clams."


	10. Chapter 10

200 reviews? I have nothing to say.

Actually, I have a lot to say. So, this practically wrote itself _pi_ times, and every time in completely the wrong direction. It was supposed to be a nice, friendly apology with perhaps a visit from the relaxed and suave Arthur of the infamous hotel lobby, but things went overboard, became utterly ridiculous, and instead I ended up with..._this. _My only excuse is that this will definitely be the most nonsensical chapter I will ever write and that my cousin wouldn't stop sending me links to cheesy, stick in your head all day Chinese love songs. That and the highly disturbing fact that the Sex Pistols have released their own perfume. I hope this advance apology will result in forgiveness.

By the way, does anyone know a really fancy French dish with pears in it? Or if not pears, a dish with any kind of fruit that you could carry around in a bag as a snack would also work.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

True to his word, Eames doesn't say a single word to Arthur about Ariadne's dream, although she's a bit suspicious about the prolonged amount of time the two of them spend cooped up in a corner. The point man, for his part, seems perfectly back to normal and asks her about their visit to Caligiuri as if the morning hadn't happened at all; in fact, she's a little scared by how friendly he is. After she's satisfied him with her answers, she sets to work transcribing her sketches into a detailed blueprint of the Caligiuri estate while the images are still fresh in her mind.

She's halfway through the second floor when she finally decides to call it a day. The sky is a deep blue black through the warehouse windows and the crisp lines in her sketchpad have blurred into hazy smudges. She doesn't even want to know what time it is.

Arthur looks up as the architect slings her bag over her shoulder. "Are you leaving?" She makes a small noise of consent, too tired to talk and he stands up himself. "I'll drive you," he offers.

"No, I'll walk," she murmurs, despairing of what Ailin will say if she shows up at the dormitory in a different car then the one she left in. "It's not that far."

"I'll go with you," he insists. "It's dark."

"I go out in the dark all the time," she protests, but to no avail. He simply follows her out the door; Eames winks and mouths something that looks suspiciously like _clam_ as they pass.

"You really don't have to walk me home," she mumbles, deeply embarrassed and grateful that they can only see outlines of each other in the dim streetlight.

"Consider it an apology," he replies, closing the metre wide gap she's left between them.

"Apology? For what?" Ariadne asks, confused.

"You can't honestly say you enjoyed my company this morning?"

"I – " She breaks off, not knowing what to say.

"I won't be offended if you say no."

"Well…no. Not exactly."

"Then I apologize for leaving you hanging. Also for being a bit of an idiot. You don't have to tell me what's bothering you if you don't want to."

His speech is oddly relaxed and casual, and not his usual pushed up sleeves, chair tilting casual either. He sounds more like the barista at her favourite café (albeit minus the addictive French accent) than the point man she knows, and somehow, the change brings with it an irrational fear.

"Why the sudden change of heart?" she asks.

"Because I trust you," he replies simply.

The words almost make Ariadne tell him, but the Pyramids didn't become wonders by _almost_ being built. Habit and fear hold her back. As much as she appreciates his trust, he's only made it harder to hold herself together. It was so much easier even to think about lying when she wasn't trusted.

Arthur misinterprets her long silence. "Did I say something wrong?" he asks, anxiety permeating through his voice.

She shakes her head, then realizes he probably can't see her in the lack of light. "You didn't. I'm just…" She struggles to find the right word. "Surprised."

"You're surprised that I trust you?"

She backtracks at once. "No, I'm surprised that you'd give up so easily. I always pictured you as the type who'd go to any extreme to get answers."

"Oh."

It's the most awkward sound Ariadne's ever heard him make. For some reason, the thought comforts her.

"Not that I think that's a bad thing," she adds hastily. "Just…I figured you'd always want to know everything about everybody."

Arthur chuckles and she feels a ridiculous urge to bottle up the rare sound so she can release it later, when she wakes up from yet another nightmare.

"I can see why you'd think that," he murmurs. "But you're not affiliated in any way with a target and I don't research my team mates."

"You don't?" Ariadne repeats, genuinely surprised this time. "Doesn't that go against all your principles?"

"Yes," he admits," but I think they deserve a little privacy. And to be honest, it would only make everything more awkward to keep files on everyone I work with."

She wonders if this a veiled rebuke for digging too deep into his subconscious, which, if it is, doesn't bode so well for Eames' advice to extract his entire life story. And then she wonders if it would really be more awkward to know everything about each other. Surely they've already reached the absolute limit.

"You really don't care if I don't tell you?" she asks. "Not that there's anything to tell, of course"

"No," he replies after a moment. "I'd like to know, but what you do is up to you."

He sounds so trusting of her decision that Ariadne is seized with a fresh wave of guilt for deceiving him. She assuages herself with the fact that he's better off not knowing and that, if she's successful, he'll never need to know. The feeling dies, but only a little.

"Thanks." She mumbles, still utterly ashamed of herself for betraying the trust he's so easily given her. "I…Well, just…Thanks."

"You're welcome."

They spend several minutes walking in silence, their footsteps clicking loudly on the cobbled sidewalk. There are few people outside – they're in a residential neighbourhood and it's probably morning already. The ones they do come across are mainly couples of varying ages, who give them knowing smiles as if to say _We're like you too._ At their looks, she's torn between running away as fast as her short legs will take her and inching closer to Arthur. Both choices frighten her equally, setting off shivers and goosebumps across her skin.

Arthur immediately moves in so close that his jacket sleeve brushes against her hair. "Cold?" he breathes, so quietly that she only catches the word because it vibrates through him.

Ariadne shakes her head, forgetting their proximity, let along that he can't see her, and her head nudges against his arm. The touch drives him away, but not far enough. She stays on tenterhooks, half hoping to brush against him again but dreading what will happen if she does. At this ambivalent distance, the possibilities are endless and the probabilities, uncertain. It's a matter of pure impulse, not even chance, because that, at least, could always be mathematically derived, no matter how complicated the parameters and equations.

It's the constant vacillation that scares the architect more than anything else, the lack of solid, well-defined structures that could potentially stand forever. She wonders if that's what makes Arthur stay exactly where he is, not moving an inch to either side, not even talking. She's in university, not high school, old enough to know that people don't walk the streets during the darkest part of the day for the sake of an unnecessary apology, especially not when wearing designer suits. But the knowledge doesn't comfort her in the least, only makes her ponder _why_ he's so indecisive whereas he's always so quick on the uptake when it comes to everything else. Her own reasons are clear enough – you don't pour all the uncertainties of your heart out to people who murder you in your sleep. But more than that, it's _his_ uncertainty that fuels hers. And the longer they stay like this, the more certain Ariadne becomes that it – whatever _it_ is – will never happen.

Nevertheless, Arthur's mere presence, especially this soft, realxed one that he's suddenly acquired, sends pins and needles crawling through her arms to her fingertips and into her nails, until she's numb from the need to step over the invisible lines on either side of her. The entire right half of her body aches with the effort of not touching him, but not pulling away either, and it takes all her concentration to remember to keep walking, keep placing one foot in front of the other. It's more tiring, she discovers, than running around a labyrinth in full snow gear.

She finally gets her respite when they turn a corner and a cyclist careens out of nowhere between them, snapping the elastic that holds them together. Her bubble of anxiety deflates, her throat clears itself magically and her brain starts functioning at its normal capacity again, although there's still a phantom tingle on the side of her head.

Arthur, too, seems to regain his power of speech and breaks the silence first. "You never said whether or not you're cold."

"I'm not," she replies, although now that she's no longer worrying about where to walk, she realizes that it _is _rather cold outside. But she isn't going to tell him the truth; he'd probably do something stupid and chivalrous like forcing his jacket on her. And she, in turn, would die of the embarrassment and shame of living up to the perfect Hollywood cliché.

"You look cold," Arthur says, and Ariadne suspects he's getting ready to shed his suit. Drastic times call for drastic measures.

"If you dare give me your jacket, I'll scream so loudly you'll be arrested for assault," she threatens, wishing there was enough light to see his expression.

Arthur, however, sounds unfazed when he answers. "I have connections in every country in the world except Vanuatu and a bank account large enough to post whatever bail the judge cares to set. Not to mention the fact that I haven't touched you."

"I doubt any of your connections could get past a restraining order," Ariadne retorts, irritated with how easy it is for him to find a loophole in her threat.

"That," he replies after a second, "is probably the worst thing you could threaten me with."

He times his words perfectly as they're passing under a lamppost. The dim, golden light makes her face appear even redder than it already is. She's on the verge of doing some assaulting herself when she catches sight of the smile tugging at his lips and decides that, for the time being, there are worse things in life.

"So no restraining order?" Arthur asks, sounding like he's holding back laughter.

Ariadne scowls. "Not this time."

"And I'm assuming that the jacket is also a no?"

"Definitely a no," she replies firmly. Quite apart from the whole Hollywood thing, she doesn't think her brain can take spending the rest of the night _smelling_ like the point man.

"Well, it was worth a shot."

Her heart skips a beat and she nearly walks into a tree. It's the first time he's used the words since the abstract hotel lobby of the Fischer job, although certainly not the first time she's thought about them. She still can't decide what he'd meant by them; what was worth a shot: his attempt to distract the projections or the brief, barely perceivable contact of skin (she tries not think lips)? In the months of dream free reality, the memory of that kiss had been the first to feel like it had been a dream, and the accompanying words, the last to fade into memory. She hadn't forgotten about it, but she hadn't though too much about it for awhile until Arthur had rematerialized. And now, in the small morning hours less than a block away from her home, is the closest he's ever come to mentioning it.

Ariadne clears her throat awkwardly, casting around for something to penetrate the curtain of silence that's fallen around them once more. Nothing comes to mind, but she's saved by her phone. In the empty street, its tiny vibration is almost deafening. She answers on the second ring and is greeted by the frantic voice of Ailin, who spits out her words faster than a TGV.

"_Mon Dieu_, Ariadne, where have you been? Do you know what time it is? I've been up for _ages_, waiting for you to tell me about blue convertible man – "

Arthur makes a sound halfway between a cough and laughter and Ariadne curses the moment of weakness that had led to her purchasing the most expensive phone on the market, which, unfortunately, was equipped with a whisper sensitive mouthpiece. Ailin's voice squeaks up a semitone.

"Is that him?"

"No," Ariadne splutters indignantly. "And I'm kind of busy at the moment."

"Busy? Doing _what_, exactly?"

"Walking home," she hisses, hoping the words will calm her roommate, who sounds like she's close to hyperventilating. She can feel Arthur shaking with silent laughter beside her.

"With who?" Ailin demands at once. "And don't you dare say someone from work again."

"With a friend, then," she replies, willing to say anything if her roommate will only hang up and save her from further mortification.

"A friend," Ailin repeats, unconvinced. "Must be some friend to walk you home at two in the morning. Well, tell him to hurry up, I have to get up early tomorrow and I need to sleep."

The receiver clicks and Ariadne snaps her phone shut, face burning at twice its normal temperature. She doesn't dare turn to look at Arthur.

"Friend from school?" he asks, amusement clearing in his voice.

"Roommate," she mumbles.

"She sounds…nice," he observes nonchalantly. "Does she always wait up for you?"

"No," Ariadne answers, still looking resolutely away. "She likes to sleep a lot, actually. This is the first time she's done it."

"Because she's worried I won't return you in one piece?" he asks. They've reached the dormitory apartment by now and he stops in front of the door, waiting for an explanation.

"I suppose...She probbaly just wants to pester me about Eames."

"Blue convertible man?" Arthur laughs. "What have you been telling the poor girl? She probably thinks you're working with car thieves."

"She doesn't think I'm working with anyone," Ariadne replies. "And I haven't told her anything. She just happened to see you and Eames waiting outside for me and got suspicious. Which reminds me, I think I'll walk from now on."

"Why?"

She swears he sounds hurt by her galant offer, which will save him both time and fuel. Before she can answer, however, the window of the only still lit room in the building crashes open and Ailin's fiery curls tumble out.

"I thought you said he was leaving the country?"

"That's why," Ariadne murmurs weakly, positive that she can grill a steak with the heat emanating from her face.


	11. Chapter 11

I think people misunderstood my question from the last chapter due to my utterly fail phrasing; I didn't mean a snack with pears in it, just a really fancy main course dish with pears in it.

Thanks for the reviews! I'm sorry that I skipped over Arthur's reaction to Ailin...some things are better left to the imagination. But I promise the two of them will have a conversation one day.

By the way, you should go watch the video of Joseph Gordon-Levitt singing _Natural Woman_ on Youtube. His expression is quite amusing, especially if you try to imagine it on Arthur's face.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Ailin pounces on her the moment she unlocks and opens the door, exhausted and embarrassed after a hasty goodnight that had been highly awkward on her part, caught between her roommate's curious indignation and Arthur's amused silence.

"What happened to leaving the country?" the redhead demands fiercely. "You like him!"

"I don't," Ariadne protests wearily. "And I never said when he was leaving." She kicks off her shoes, throws her belongings haphazardly over the shabby carpet (she knows that when she wakes up, Ailin will have put them where they belong already) and falls face forward on her bed. "And I'd appreciate it if you never mention it again," she mumbles into her covers.

Ailin, however, has no intention of letting her sleep. She grabs the blankets off her own bed and bounces onto the architect's, all thoughts of her early morning forgotten. "Are you going to tell me how you left with blue convertible man and showed up twelve hours later with suit dude, who apparently walked you home from work?"

Ariadne raises her head a fraction of an inch to stare disbelievingly at her friend. "Suit dude? What is_ wrong_ with you?"

"Well, you never told me his name and I have to call him something, don't I? Although, I think he looks like an Ed. Ed Flannigan. Simple but sophisticated. What do you think? Am I close?"

"His name's Arthur," she replies resignedly, shuddering at what he'd do if Ailin ever addressed him as _Ed Flannigan_. And her least favourite cousin had married a particularly unpleasant man called Flannigan.

"Arthur." Ailin rolls the name on her tongue. "Arthur. Ed. Arthur." She repeats the names over and over in different voices. "I like it," she declares finally. "It might even be better than Ed."

"Good. It's his name. Now let me sleep."

Her roommate ignores the command and tugs her up into a sitting position. "I've been up two hours waiting for you, the least you can do is show some appreciation and answer my questions. What does this Arthur do?"

Ariadne stifles a yawn. "I told you already, he works with me."

Ailin rolls her eyes. "Everyone seems to work with you these days. Is he an architect too?"

"Yes," she lies because she can't possibly tell the truth. "He specializes in designing…uh, paradoxical structures. You know, Penrose staircases and all that stuff."

She's never been more thankful that the fates allotted her a roommate who could speak German better than most natives but had no clue when it came to architecture. The fancy words wouldn't have fooled most of the people she knows but clueless Ailin buys her act and appears suitably mollified.

"So you really work with him, huh? And what about the other one, the one with the convertible? What does he specialize in?"

"Roman columns," Ariadne replies from the top of her head, and nearly blushes at what Professor Miles would say if he could hear her defiling his sacred vocabulary.

"And are you going to tell me how you managed to leave with one and come back with the other twice in one day?" Ailin asks. "Or are you going to make me keep guessing?"

"Keep guessing," Ariadne mumbles through another yawn. "But if you let me go to sleep, I might consider telling you eventually."

Ailin ponders the offer for a moment. "Alright, go to sleep. You look like you need it. But you have to promise to consider."

Ariadne doesn't hear the end. The moment her brain comprehends the words _go to sleep_, she slides onto the covers and sinks into her dream world.

* * *

She awakes six hours later, gasping for breath, and immediately reaches for the bishop in her pocked, clutching it so hard that the smooth edges dig red welts into her palm.

Ailin, dressed and with her hand on the doorknob, turns at the sound of her shaky breaths and eyes her with concern. "Are you okay?" she asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost or something."

"I'm fine," Araidne mumbles, although she's far from it.

The dream had not, as Eames had promised, grown better. If anything, it had gotten worse, full of shadowy, larger than life Arthurs who'd chased her through entire cities before cornering her in a dark alley and firing the fatal shot. Shots, she corrects, because there had been more than one gun and she definitely remembers more than one bullet ripping through her. She places one hand on her neck to assure herself that she still has a pulse.

Her roommate watches her with a frown, before dropping her hand from the door and sitting down at the foot of Ariadne's bed. "Are you sure you're fine? You were muttering in your sleep all morning. I couldn't tell what you were saying so I didn't wake you up, but it looks like I should have. What happened?"

"Just a bad dream," Ariadne replies, eerily reminded of Eames by Ailin's words. She makes a mental note to never let the two meet.

"You want to talk about it?"

The architect shrugs, knowing that her roommate can't help her but not wanting to snub her either.

"You've been having bad dreams for awhile, haven't you?" Ailine continues. "I've seen you fighting with your sheets sometimes when you sleep, which you practically never do. I mean, you've always been pretty bad about it, but you've slept a total of like, twenty hours in the last week. Is there something bothering you?"

Ariadne shakes her head. "I…I can't tell you."

The frown on Ailin's face becomes more pronounced. "You _can't_ tell me or you _won't_ tell me?"

"I can't," Ariadne repeats. "It's…it's a secret. Someone else's secret."

"Don't tell me the secret," Ailine replies, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world. "Just tell me what's bothering you."

"They're sort of snowballed together," Ariadne explains. "I can't tell you one without the other."

Ailin scrutinizes her grey, expressionless face for a moment. "Does this have something to do with that Arthur guy?" she asks, and gives a shout of triumph at the flash of affirmation in the architect's eyes that gives her away.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ariadne lies half heartedly. She knows that the game is up, bur her pride won't let her go down without some kind of a fight.

The redhead smiles. "You think I haven't seen him hanging around waiting for you all the time? I saw his car at the university too, a few days ago. It's a little obvious what you've been up to."

"I haven't been _up to_ anything," Ariadne replies, her lingering fear replaced temporarily by indignation. To her utter surprise, Ailin nods in agreement.

"You probably haven't, not with that innocent eight year old brain of yours." Her expression turns serious once more. "But honestly, if you're having nightmares or something because of the guy, I'm sure you could just _talk_ to him. I mean, he looks like a nice guy."

"He is," Ariadne murmurs without thinking, and flushes pink at Ailin's grin.

"So you'll talk to him?"

"I can't," Ariadne replies, drawing a sigh from her roommate. "It's not that simple. He might not understand, and he definitely won't like it."

"How do you know what he'll think?" Ailin demands with a bit of impatience. "From what I've seen, you've known the guy for what, two, three weeks max? And you think you already know everything about him?"

"No," Ariadne answers, seized with a compulsion to laugh at the irony of her friend's words. If only she _did_ know everything about him; she would not be having this conversation. Or would the dreams only get worse, like it had despite her knowing a little more about the point man now?

"Then why on earth would you not tell him what's bothering you?" Ailin asks, exasperated. "Do you get a kick out of not being able to sleep?"

_Yes_, Ariadne wants to say, but she shakes her head instead.

"Will you tell me then?" Ailin asks after a minute of silence, sounding genuinely worried. "Or someone? I don't think it's healthy for you to have nightmares every night."

"I have," Ariadne replies, glad of being able to probide her friend with at least one satisfactory (and true) answer. She feels guilty for causing the girl so much worry, all the more so because she's barely talked to her since the Frechette job started, so caught up in trying to balance life at the warehouse with the last month of school.

Some of the worry lines around Ailin's blue eyes fade away at her words. "That's a start," she says. "But honestly, you should tell this Arthur. You don't know that he'll react badly."

"And what if he does?"

Ailin shrugs. "It won't be such a big deal. What's that old saying? Things always get worse before they can get better. And anyways, the longer you put it off, the more you have to suffer and the worse his reaction will be when you finally get around to telling him whatever it is that's bothering you. So it's a win-win situation if you talk to him now."

It sounds so simple, so straightforward when Ailin puts it like that and Ariadne desperately wishes that the only thing at risk is a minor explosion from Arthur. She wouldn't think twice about telling him the truth then. But she can't, not with her entire future hanging in the balance.

"I'll think about it," she promises. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Ailin checks her watch and grimaces. "I'm late as it is, a few more minutes isn't a big deal," she replies.

"I'm fine now," Ariadne assures her. "Really. You can go – I'm not going to faint or anything."

"Well, if you're sure…"

"Positive," Ariadne replies firmly.

"Alright then." Ailin gives her a wave and a smile before getting up and closing the door softly behind her.

After a moment, Ariadne slides off her bed and walks to the tiny dresser mirror beside Ailin's immaculate half of the room. Despite the minutes that have passed, she can still recall, quite clearly, the sensation of being cornered and then gunned down. The dream had been more vivid than before, but she supposes Ailin is right. Things have to get worse before they can get better.

She examines her head carefully in the mirror, but there are no signs of damage, certainly no gaping holes. It feels fine too, besides a slight difference in temperature just above her right ear, where she'd brushed against Arthur earlier that morning.

She dresses hurriedly and douses her face and hair with icy water form the bathroom tap, skipping breakfast because she doesn't think her stomach has settled enough to be able to handle much. When she steps outside, the early morning traffic hits her with surprise after the dim colours and muted sounds of her dream and walk with Arthur. Her breathing, which had been gradually slowing down during her conversation with Ailin, finally returns to its normal pace and, after awhile, with her hand still in the pocket holding her totem, she's able to manage an orange juice.

She's the last to arrive at the warehouse, which is a first. Eames is causing quite a commotion where he sits at his desk, grumbling loudly over the magazine clippings of wedding dresses littering his belongings. Arthur catches her eye and he gives her a smile and a wink. Even though she knows it's merely a result of Eames' predicament she has to turn away quickly to hide her pink face, unused to the attention. Ariadne isn't quite sure what to make of this sudden change that's come over the point man, especially not when he pulls her from her models at noon to inform her that he's taking her to lunch.

She chokes on a mouthful of water when he tells her and sprays it over his spotless shirt. "What? No, I brought lunch." She shows him the pear and chocolate bars in her bag.

He doesn't even flinch at the sudden drenching. "That's not lunch, Ariadne. You're going to get sick if you don't eat properly."

"I eat like this all the time and I never get sick," she objects, trying hard not to stare at the wet spot on his chest.

"Better not to push your luck," he replies, picking up one of her chocolate bars. "This seems to have expired last December," he adds. "I don't think you have much of a choice but to come."

Of course she has a choice, but as always, Arthur is mysteriously deaf to her protests and she soon finds herself waiting to be seated at the classiest restaurant in Paris.

"Do you have any idea how expensive this place is?" Ariadne whispers as the maître d' leads them to a reserved table at the back of the restaurant. "A glass of water here is worth more than a week of rent."

"Don't worry, I'll pay," Arthur assures her, pulling out her chair and waiting until she's seated before he sits down himself.

"That's not what I meant!"

His lips twitch into a half smile. "I know, but I can't take you out to lunch and let you pay." He hands her one of the blue, leather bound menus. "What do you want?"

She takes the menu from him reluctantly and scans it quickly. Not one of the names are familiar to her and the prices have more digits than she cares for. Even the photos, which Ariadne gathers are meant to be appetizing, scare her with their odd shapes and tropical colours. She's a microwave and Chinese takeout kind of girl; the crystal wine glasses and rows of cutlery on the table intimidate her just as much as suits and heels do.

She coughs and picks nervously at the ends of her paisley scarf. "Do we really have to eat here?" she asks softly, so the waiter passing by with a tray of empty dishes can't hear. "Can't we go to a coffee shop or something instead?"

"No," Arthur replies bluntly, checking his watch. "But I'll take you wherever you want for dinner, if that makes you happier."

"No thanks," she murmurs, balking at the idea of eating another meal with him. She takes another look at the menu. "What in the world is _bouillabaisse_?"

"It's a type of stew." The point man eyes her curiously. "Aren't you supposed to be the French one?"

"I'm from New Brunswick," Ariadne retorts. "We eat things like tortière and poutine and beavertails."

He raises a bemused eyebrow. "Beavertails?"

"Yes, beavertails," she replies savagely, not deigning to mention the oddly pastry-like appearance of the tails. It's the least she can do to repay him for taking her to such a fancy restaurant.

"I'll take your word for it," he murmurs. And then, "Look to your right."

She does so and nearly waters him for the second time. A tall, woman with glasses and long red hair is being seated two tables beside them, across from a thin man with ash blonde hair sticking up in every direction. Ariadne hadn't noticed him earlier, but now that Arthur's pointed the man out, there's no mistaking him for anyone but their target, Michel Frechette.


	12. Chapter 12

Thanks for all the reviews! Not a particularly important chapter, but more for next time! :D

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

"What's he doing here?" Ariadne mutters, switching her gaze from the famous architect and his fiancée back to Arthur.

"Frechette and Carla come here every Sunday," he replies.

Realization dawns on the architect, bringing with it a mixture of relief and disappointment. "Is that why you're taking a sudden interest in my lunch? So we can watch them?"

"It's why I brought you here, yes."

"What about Eames and Yusuf?" she asks. "Are they here too?"

"Don't look," he warns her, "but Yusuf is a few tables behind you, drinking way too much as always. Eames is the one with the ridiculous hat in the left corner."

She sneaks a peek to her left and catches sight of the forger busy chatting up a waitress. His right eyelid flickers briefly when he sees her looking his way before he turns his attention back to the woman taking his order.

A cough at her shoulder announces the arrival of her own waiter, who looks down at her expectantly with his pen poised over pad.

"And what would Mademoiselle like to order?"

"Um…" She stares hopelessly at the swirly script in front of her and picks out the cheapest dish she can find. Unable to pronounce the name, despite her near perfect French, she points at it wordlessly.

Arthur gives her a half smile as their waiter waltzes off to deliver wine to Frechette and Carla. "Pears again?"

"I like pears," she replies defiantly.

"Evidently," he murmurs. They sink into silence, waiting for their orders and more importantly, eavesdropping on the couple two tables beside them.

Carla is pulling a sheaf of photographs from her designer handbag and spreading them out on the tablecloth. "What do you think?" she asks. Her voice is low and husky. A tint of her Italian blood is audible in her otherwise perfect French.

Frechette takes a sip of wine and picks up one of the photos. "I like this one," he replies in the quiet, dulcet tone Ariadne remembers well from his seminar. "The contrast is nice."

"That's what I thought, but I'm not a fan of his angles – they look a little awkward. I think we should go for something more natural and intimate, like this one." Carla hands him another photo, which he glances at briefly before handing it back.

"If you like it, then I like it."

His fiancée beams brightly, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. "Thanks, darling. Now about the cake." Another stack of photos comes out, making Ariadne wonder just how much space there is in the tiny leather bag. "Papa keeps saying that we can't have a proper Italian wedding without a white, tiered one."

Frechette frowns slightly. "I thought we were going to stay away from the traditional big wedding."

"Exactly! That's what I told him and he said he'd think about it. But I don't know what he's worrying about – he's not paying a cent, so really, he's lucky we're giving him a say in this at all."

"He _is_ your father," Frechette points out, but Carla waves the objection away as a mere trifle.

"He's not the one getting married, _I_ am. It's not my fault he went and got eloped instead of having a proper wedding. But I was saying, I want an abstract cake, something _different_ but fun." She gazes imploringly at Frechette. "Do you know what I mean?"

Ariadne pities her fellow architect, who seems bewildered by the heiress' description. "Abstract cake?" he murmurs. "I've never heard of one."

"That's why I brought photos," Carla explains, scattering the snapshots in front of her. "It's those things you always see on cooking shows. You know, the really absurd cake sculptures that look like they're going to topple any minute. What do you think about having one of those? We could get a castle, to fit in with the whole fairytale theme."

Ariadne giggles and Arthur shoots her an odd glance. "Sorry," she whispers. "Just…a fairytale theme wedding seems really typical of someone like her."

The point man's lips twitch. "They're getting married at Disneyland," he informs her and she nearly laughs again.

Frechette is rubbing the short stubble on his chin. "We could do that," he says hesitantly after a moment. "Do you want me to design one?"

"That would be lovely. I'll take the sketches around to a few bakeries once you're done. Maybe you should come too, since it'll be your castle."

He shakes his head, folding his napkin absentmindedly, and Carla scowls. The expression looks out of place on her smooth features.

"I realize you don't like this," she tells him (Ariadne perks her ears up at this), "but couldn't you at least _pretend_ to have some enthusiasm? It's your wedding too."

"I told you, I'd rather have a small ceremony," Frechette replies, and for the first time, he sounds fully present and alive.

"You're a world famous architect, Michel, and we both come from business families – it's unreasonable to want a small wedding. You're lucky Papa's letting us off on the whole traditional Italian getup."

"I wouldn't exactly call what we do _business_," he mutters and receives a scathing glare from his fiancée.

"Be quiet," she hisses, eyes flitting nervously around the restaurant. Arthur hastily leans closer, pretending to whisper something in Ariadne's ear. "You know we shouldn't be talking about this in public. If anyone hears – "

"We'll just have them shot," Frechette finishes emotionlessly. "Isn't that how our _business_ works? We just get rid of anyone in the way."

"Michel!" Carla is livid now. The sculpted features Ariadne had admired earlier don't look nearly as pretty covered in suppressed rage. "If you don't want innocent people getting hurt, have some sense and stop talking!"

Frechette obediently closes his mouth. After a moment, Carla's expression softens. "Look," she says in a voice that Ariadne has to strain to hear, "I don't like it either, but like it or not, it's the family business. And in any case, Papa's promised that there will be no more deals after this one."

"My godfather's been saying the same thing for years," Frechette replies calmly. "He's yet to follow through on it."

"Well, Papa's different," Carla insists. "He promised that Antonelli Labs will be a strictly aboveground empire after this one."

Her fiancé looks sceptical. Ariadne doesn't blame him; from what Arthur has told her, Antonelli's criminal business is much too lucrative to abandon. However, Frechette doesn't say anything, only takes another, considerably larger sip of wine that would be better defined as a gulp, and pretends to examine the photos littered across the table.

Their waiter returns and Ariadne is momentarily distracted from watching the pair by the exotic concoction in front of her. She stares at it, perplexed by what to do with the artfully arranged plate of food. She sneaks a glance at Arthur, who's watching her with considerable amusement.

"I would eat it instead of staring at it," he advises.

Her hand hovers over the vast arrangement of silver cutlery and she thinks wistfully of the little plastic forks in ramen bowls. In the end, she settles on one in the middle and uses it to prod her plate gingerly.

"I'm not really sure where to start," she confesses. "It looks too pretty to eat."

"That, I think, is the entire purpose of French cuisine."

"Not steak," Ariadne argues, gesturing at his plate. "I don't think anything could make that pretty."

Arthur pauses in the middle of cutting. "Would you like some?" he offers.

Ariadne shakes her head rapidly. "I think I'll just stick to tackling this." Taking a deep breath, she steels her nerves, hardens her heart against the picturesque dish and stabs her fork into the offending meal.

Arthur chuckles and raises his glass to her. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," the architect murmurs, and they fall back to watching Frechette and Carla, who seem to have hit a rut of their own, for neither is talking. They eat hastily in relative silence and when they finish, Carla leaves first while Frechette stays behind and orders another glass of wine.

"They don't seem to be getting along very well," Ariadne observes as they wait for the waiter to bring the bill. "Or are engaged couples supposed to act like that?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Antonelli said they've been like this for awhile, that's why he wants to know what secrets Frechette is hiding."

"If you already knew, why did you have to come at all?" she asks curiously.

"I wanted to see for myself," he answers. "I don't trust everything Antonelli says and there's quite a lot he didn't say. He didn't mention anything about legitimizing his business to me, although it's more than likely just a ruse for his daughter."

"Why did I need to come then?" Ariadne demands, feeling rather used. The couple had been interesting to watch, but when she'd seen Frechette next to them, she'd assumed the point man had brought her to teach her something about navigating Frechette's subconscious. And while he'd never said it in so much words, he hadn't denied it either.

"You didn't need to come," he replies. "I just enjoy your company."

It takes Ariadne a few seconds to comprehend the meaning of his words and when she does, she just barely refrains from diving under the table.

The drive back to the warehouse is unusually quiet.

* * *

Arthur leaves again soon after they return and Eames accosts the architect at once.

"How was your date?" he asks, so loudly that Yusuf hears from the other side of the warehouse and, dropping his chemicals, makes a beeline for her desk.

"It wasn't a date," Ariadne replies as calmly as she can. She wants to knock some sense into both of them with a linoleum block but unfortunately, she's used up her stock. She inches closer to her scalpel, just in case either of them get any ideas.

"Sure it was," Eames retorts. "You ate at just about the most expensive restaurant in Paris, didn't you?"

"And he drove you back afterwards," Yusuf adds, looking like he's thoroughly enjoying her discomfort. She notices that this is not the first time the chemist has helped to gang up on someone and hopes he doesn't decide to make a habit of it. With three men in the team, her female intuition tells her that there won't be much debate over who the target of their jokes will be.

"You know we were working," she protests. "And anyways, you were all there."

"To help put on a show," Eames replies, dismissing her argument with a vague wave of his hands. "But of course, if you'd rather we _weren't _there, then we'll gladly stay away next time. Watching Arthur stare at you gets on my nerves."

"He wasn't staring," Ariadne counters, blood surging to her face and neck.

"And how would you know that?" Yusuf asks. "Unless you've got eyes on the back of your head – "

"Or you were doing some staring of your own," Eames interjects. "Which would just make me doubly nervous."

"You're being ridiculous," Ariadne murmurs weakly, painfully aware of just how ridiculous her own words sound. "We were watching Frechette and Carla the whole time."

"Are these the same Frechette and Carla that we were watching? I seem to remember that they didn't do much worth watching. You don't really find people shoving food down their gullets more appealing than our highly fascinating, not to mention attractive, point man?"

"I'm sorry, are you saying that you find Arthur attractive?" Ariadne asks, feigning innocence.

Eames laughs. "Not nearly as attractive as I am, but he's a damn sight better looking than when I first met him. An expensive suit can make anyone look good, even a scrawny little git like him. But my opinion doesn't matter. The real question is, what do _you_ think of darling Arthur's physical charms?" The forger stops to draw a breath after the long speech and looks immensely pleased with the confused expression on Ariadne's face. It takes her a moment to stammer out an answer.

"I think his appearance is…adequate."

"Would that be with or without the aid of the expensive suit?" Yusuf inquires curiously. The question sends Eames into another peal of laughter and it takes all of Ariadne's self restraint to hold back from snatching up the scalpel conveniently beside her.

"You should see your face," Eames sniggers. "Priceless."

Ariadne mutters something barely discernible that sounds like it might be a string of profanities, the most polite of which is _asshole_. Far from insulting the forger and his accomplice, it only serves to widen their identical smirks.

"I would watch my language if I were you," he observes. "Arthur doesn't like foul language, not unless it pertains to a catastrophe during the job, in which case I've seen him use some surprisingly colourful language. I'm not sure how he'd react to seeing his architect curse like a sailor."

Self preservation wins over self resolve at these words and the said architect dives for her scalpel. The dynamic duo immediately back off as she brandishes the instrument wildly.

"Don't you have something better to do?" Ariadne hisses, angry with embarassment. "Like playing with explosives," she adds, as a particularly violent explosion of dark smoke sends Yusuf scrambling back to his abandoned test tubes. Eames, however, is unperturbed and remains lounging at her desk, albeit at a safe distance from the still waving scalpel.

"Why don't you go do something useful like the rest of us?" she demands.

The forger fakes a yawn. "Can't be bothered and besides, I've got nothing that needs doing."

"Go play dress up then, or whatever else it is that idiotic men do in their spare time."

"Some of them like to stare at architects," he comments, although his laughter is visibly subdued by the dress up reference, which seems to have touched a nerve. He lowers his voice before she can retort, and conveniently changes the subject. "Did your dream get better?"

Ariadne frowns, twirling her scalpel as she debates how to answer him. "No," she sighs finally, "it got worse. But I figure that's how things always happen, right? It has to get worse before it can get better."

"Probably."

Eames' uncertain answer and the frown on his customarily carefree face don't give her the reassurance she wants, but they leave room for hope. "Extract what you need from Arthur as soon as you can," he advises. "Your dreams sound harmless enough, but I'd rather go into Frechette's subconscious without having to worry about yours too."


	13. Chapter 13

Apologies in advance for the long notes.

Thanks for all the reviews, especially pinkcatheaven for reviews number 299 and 300. I like your logic.

I believe it was Carly who wanted to know how long Matryoshka will last. I'm not exactly sure because I'm wavering between two endings of different lengths, but I would say that it's around halfway through. I'd like to get the majority of it done before school starts, which is September 7.

A few people have been saying that Ariadne is lacking in confidence, forwardness and happiness. The happiness, I'm not sure I can atone for (although I will try to make her more positive), but I will definitely attempt to make her more confident. Reading back, I realize that she does seem too passive, so thanks for telling me. I rewrote this chapter to make Ariadne more forward, but let me know if I am utterly mistaken.

**To MWM:** I wish I could reply to you, but as there was no link, I will post it here. Judging from your obvious distaste for my mediocre story, you will probably never read this, but thank you for taking the time to criticize me. You bluntness has, in a single stroke, saved me from developing an altogether insufferable ego. I will most certainly, as you eloquently put it, "get a grip" and make a thorough study of the literature around me. This will, I hope, fix my heinous punctuation and mature Ariadne from the inconvenient and equally mortifying age of two and a half. If you do happen to stumble across this, I will gladly take any recommendations of stories I should read, as well as advice on how to improve my punctuation and characterizations. Your genius might help to point me in the right direction and save this story from going in an abysmal direction of a different kind. I truly appreciate the fact that you took the time to let me know your very honest opinions and I hope I'll be able to improve on them. Thank you.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

Ariadne gets little opportunity to carry out Eames' advice over the next few days. Besides having to build and teach her designs to the rest of the team, there are last minute decisions to make, details to memorize, exams to study for, and all while deflecting Ailin's constant interrogations and Eames' snide remarks. She begins to dread what will happen if the two should coincidentally meet. Yusuf, luckily, seems to have taken the destruction of his favourite buret to heart and spends his days watching over his lab more prudently than a hen does her newborn chicks.

Despite their unrelenting schedules, somehow Arthur always manages to find an excuse to visit her desk a dozen times a day. She enjoys his company while it lasts, but he always leaves her cringing at her words, which become sillier the more she mulls over them. The point man, however, doesn't bring her into another dream, seemingly satisfied with her abilities, and Ariadne decides that rather than barge into his mind like she'd gone into Cobb's, it might be safer to make a plan of some sorts first. Their late night walks to her dormitory, while not conducive to pumping him for information, provide excellent fuel for her wary subconscious and overactive imagination, until the architect is half mad with distraction.

Genius, it soon becomes evident, does indeed walk hand in hand with madness, for the five days leading up to _the_ day are the most productive of Ariadne's life. Caligiuri's mansion is perfect down to the grains and knotholes in the wood paneling and _Madame Edith_ looks worthy of any late night bridal show, but her crowning achievement is the building and city block that will hold the topmost dream. It is an architect's paradise and her only regret is that, if all goes smoothly, she'll only have an hour to spend with her creation.

The night before the job, Ariadne stays late at the warehouse, waiting for an opportunity - the last one before the job - to coerce Arthur into one more dream. Yusuf and Eames have long left, the latter allegedly to pursue his tradition of gambling away his life savings the day before a job. Only Arthur is still there, his figure bleached an eerie blue by the glow of the computer screen. She carves tiny geometrical shapes into her desk while she watches, willing him to look up and see her persistent staring. By the time he finally does, it's nearly midnight.

"Something wrong?" Arthur asks her across the aisle that separates their desks. "You should really head home and get some sleep."

"I know," she murmurs, winding the end of her grandmother's scarf around her index finger. She chooses her words carefully, knowing that this is her last chance to go into his dreams with a plausible excuse. "It's just…I'm worried about what Frechette's subconscious will be like. What kind of security he might have."

"Whatever kind it is, you'll be more than able to handle it," he assures her confidently.

Ariadne nods and sits there, picking at a nonexistent loose thread in silence and reminding herself to appear suitably nervous and agitated. "I'd feel a lot better if I could practise one more time," she says after a moment.

A small frown settles between Arthur's eyes. "You've had more than enough practice. You should be sleeping right now."

"But I haven't gone into a dream for nearly a week now and you can never have too much practice..."

She trails off and looks at him in what she hopes is a pathetic and imploring manner. In the dull lighting, it's hard to tell if he's wavering or not, as if it isn't difficult enough to read his impassive face to start with. Eventually, however, he heaves a sigh and gives her a tiny nod.

She scrambles for the back of the warehouse, nearly tripping over her tied shoelaces in her anxiety to start before he can change his mind. The point man follows at a more leisurely pace, watching as she clicks the PASIV open and pulls out a tube to each of the two lawn chairs. He takes the needle from her without his usual word of thanks and she wonders if he's caught on to the out of place excitement in her eyes. But there's no time for second thoughts as she slides the needle in and her vision darkens.

* * *

"A museum," Arthur murmurs, surveying the room with a look of benign interest. "No one's ever tried that before."

She doesn't reply, already forging ahead towards the next exhibit hall. Arthur follows her wordlessly and she fancies that the projections do too. Can they sense the unusual amount of adrenaline coursing through her? Probably, but she doesn't stop to look and find out. One look at her eyes would give her away. She wishes for Arthur's impassiveness, or even better, Eames' ability to ease into any character.

The moment she pushes opens the double doors to her masterpiece, Ariadne knows that something is wrong. The room is completely empty, for one thing, but what worries her more is the sudden lull in the quiet hum of projections talking. Arthur stops dead still just behind her and from his sharp intake of air, she gathers that he doesn't like what he sees.

The hall is a rich, pine green, accented with various other shades of the point man's favourite colour. It doesn't really belong in a museum because, in spite of careful lighting and glass display cases, the items seem to have been haphazardly thrown together at random. The walls are a tribute to Salvador Dali, covered with every painting and sculpture she managed to dig up from the university's library. _The First Days of Spring_ occupies the seat of honour, directly across from the doors. Scattered throughout the room are the relics of everything Ariadne has ever learned or guessed about the man beside her. There's a small display case on Freud, a larger one on the history of Cambridge University and even a collection of dice in the corner. A few clothes hang on racks at the sides, suits and vests and the NYPD uniform that had taken her hours to Google. An ancient Messerschmitt 262 hangs dangerously form the ceiling with no visible means of support besides a thick cable at each end of the plane. To top it all off, the melody from Arthur's car wafts softly through the air.

"You shouldn't have built this," Arthur whispers harshly, lowering his head next to her ear. "It isn't safe."

"Why not?" she murmurs back, but the question is muffled by a hand covering her mouth and any further words completely vanish from her frozen brain.

"My projections, they - "

He breaks off, his other hand somehow managing to clamp itself tightly around her wrist. Arthur's subconscious is suddenly buzzing again, not with the comforting sounds of mindless chatter, but an incessant drone that frightens Ariadne with its sense of purpose. She can feel Arthur's chest vibrating through her back when he speaks again.

"Follow me. Don't look back."

His grasp on her arm tightens and he pulls her into the exhibit room, slamming and locking the door behind them to shut out the wave of projections gathering at the entrance. The point man spins her around roughly and Ariadne finds herself looking into a pair of dark eyes that, for the first time, are filled with a hard, cold anger directed completely towards her.

"Why did you do this?" he demands, motioning at the room around them with a dishevelled gesture that does not suit his pristine appearance. "_Why_?"

"I…" Her throat is sealed dry by his expression and she has to choke out the words like so much dry bread. "I wanted to know the truth."

"By building this?" he spits out through gritted teeth. "Do you have any idea how much danger you're putting yourself in? You could get killed – "

"I'll just wake up, won't I?" she cuts in.

"That's not the point," Arthur snaps, all traces of his collected demeanour abandoning him at once. "You shouldn't be risking your safety for this, you're too – "

But just exactly what she is, Ariadne never finds out, for a loud crash thunders through the silence and the heavy oak doors tremble visibly.

"They're trying to get to you," Arthur mutters, half to himself. His gaze scans the sealed room rapidly before falling back to her face. The anger is still visible in his eyes, but it's glazed over, hidden behind a calm mask of efficiency. She can practically see him calculating the success rates of all the options available to them.

"The doors will hold them, but not for long," he informs her emotionlessly. "And we can't fight them, we're too outnumbered."

"So they'll wake us up."

"Eventually," he replies. "But I don't know how long it will take. Death isn't too hard to handle but pain – that's in the mind." He halts and the meaning of his words flood over her like ice water. He isn't worried about the inevitable - dying - but what could happen if his projections decide to take their time. She swallows hard, or tries to, at least, but her throat is still blocked. The Arthur in her dreams had always been a quick and painless killer.

There's another crash and a long crack appears down the middle of the door. Arthur's grip on her wrist loosens and slides down to her hand.

"Do you trust me?" he asks brusquely, slipping his free hand into his jacket.

Ariadne isn't quite sure how to reply. Two weeks ago, she would have said _yes_ without a second thought. Now, however, with all her dreams and his projections and anger and secrecy, a nagging voice in the back of her mind tells her to say no. She chokes on the word at the brush of his thumb against her knuckles and nods. A leap of faith seems in order.

"Close your eyes."

She does so and a familiar metal weight settles against her temple. The deafening explosion drowns out the point man's whispered apology but it doesn't matter because his hands are there to steady her when she emerges from the dream with a shaky gasp.

Ariadne's own hands immediately fly to the bishop in her pocket. It falls with a reassuring _thunk_ when she tips it over. Her heartbeat slows, but she keeps her fingers wrapped around the totem when she turns her gaze to Arthur's face.

For once, the point man's expression is easy to read. Anger is evident, but it's been diluted with a mixture of worry and something that looks like guilt. When he speaks, his voice lacks its usual confidence.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. His fingers graze against the side of her head, where his gun had been seconds earlier and she draws back instinctively.

Arthur flinches and lowers his hand. "I suppose I deserve that," he says with an attempt at a smile.

"No, I didn't mean to – You just surprised me," Ariadne hastens to assure him, scrambling out of her chair and sliding down to join the point man on the floor. She doesn't think she can take much more of looking down rather than up at him, especially not with his sudden disconcerting displays of emotion.

"I never thought you'd remember all those things," Arthur tells her after the most awkward silence she's ever experienced. "Or that you'd try to use them."

"You wouldn't tell me anything," Ariadne says, trying her hardest not to sound reproachful.

"Is it really that important for you to know everything about my life?" he asks, his dark eyes searching her face. "Isn't it enough just to know who I am now?"

"But I _don't_ know who you are," she replies quietly. "I barely know anything about you, except the precious little that you've told me. I know Michel Frechette better than I know you, and I've never talked to him in my life." She pauses and takes a deep breath that rattles slightly in the silence. "You keep saying that you trust me but you won't tell me anything and frankly, I can't trust you if I don't know you at all."

She's apprehensive about how he'll take her words, but it's an enormous weight off her chest to speak the thoughts that have been worrying the back of her mind for days. Eames' talk of fearing the unknown and thrown her off for awhile, but she knows now what she's always known: that secretly, her greatest fear had always been one of trust, that despite all his words, Arthur simply didn't trust her enough to tell her the truth.

He looks away when she stops talking. "What do you want to know?" he asks, voice hollow.

"Everything," she answers at once, but regrets her blunteness when the point man's frame tenses. "You don't have to tell me if – "

"I don't want to?" Arthur laughs, a bitter, humourless laugh that grates the architect's eardrums and almost makes her wish she'd never said anything. "I just shot you, Ariadne, I don't think I have much of a choice."

"Your subconscious – "

"Shouldn't have been trying to kill you in the first place," he finishes. "I promised you that I wouldn't hurt you and I broke that promise."

"You can't control what your subconscious does," Ariadne counters, "and shooting me was the best option you had."

It feels strange to be defending the man who'd just killed her against himself, especially when she'd just given him a verbal berating, but even stranger is how calmly she can accept the fact that her nightmares have come true. Being shot by the real Arthur feels almost like a relief after dying so many times at the hands of her own projections. This time, at least, she knows that one way or another, she'll get her answers, so the dying will have been worth it.

Arthur stares at her as if he's never seen anything quite like the tiny architect sitting on the floor against a dilapidated set of patio furniture. "Thank you," he murmurs after a moment. "But you're right. I should have trusted you enough to tell you the truth instead of leaving you guessing." His voice, Ariadne is glad to hear, shows signs of returning to its normal composed tone. "How did you find out about the airplane though?" he asks. "I don't remember telling you."

"Eames told me," she replies. "He mentioned that you're a certified pilot, but he wouldn't say anything else."

"Do you really want to know the rest?" Arthur asks uncertainly, fingering his loaded die in both hands. It's the first time she's seen him playing with the totem. "It's not a pleasant story."

"Yes." Pleasantness, she's discovered, isn't something to be expected where extraction is involved, and she would rather have him with all his imperfections than a flawless, imaginary shadow of anything else.

For a few minutes, he doesn't say anything, only rolls the red dies in his hands, and she worries that he's changed his mind, which would be a shame after all the trouble she's gone to. When he finally speaks, he directs his words, not to her, but to the tiny totem.

"I used to be in the air force. That's where I learned to fly and…"

"Shoot?"

He shakes his head. "My father taught me that. I enlisted because he wanted me to but I didn't really mind once I started training. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, and I'd grown up listening to my grandfather's stories about his days as a stunt pilot, so it seemed like the logical next step."

Ariadne tries desperately to imagine the crisply dressed, intellectual to a fault man beside her crawling under barbed wire in the mud and enjoying it, but can't. Certainly, she'd seen him firing at Fischer's projections with deadly accuracy, but Cobb and Eames had been naturals at shooting too, so she'd always assumed that it was simply part of the job description, and not the other way around.

"It was fun, for the most part," he continues. "I told you before, the military uses dreams to train new soldiers. It's cheap and efficient – we could shoot each other and crash land without causing any damage. It was addictive, being able to do whatever we wanted and just waking ourselves up when things got out of hand. The flying and dreaming made everything else insignificant." He pauses for a minute, as if reliving his words. "Of course, they never thought to tell us about totems," he goes on bitterly. "A lot of the recruits went half mad, couldn't tell the difference between dreams and reality. Even a few of the more experienced officers had problems keeping track of what was what. Usually a few drops of sedative cleared their heads, but not always."

Arthur clears his throat. "There was always the odd accident, guys trying to do the impossible because they thought they were still dreaming. No one ever paid too much attention to them, besides the odd joke, until two of the pilots flew a loaded Osprey into a cliff, trying to wake us all up from our dream."

He stops, one hand clenched around his die, the other one lying less than an inch from hers, looking sad and forlorn. It amazes the architect how much easier it is to fold entire cities over than to move four fingers and a thumb across the tiny gap between them. She succeeds eventually and, to her great relief, Arthur doesn't pull away, but relaxes against her wordlessly. His hand is considerably larger than hers, with more rough edges than she remembers from their dreams, yet somehow it fits better than her favourite pair of woolen mittens.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," he replies brutally. "One of the pilots died and three of the squadron lost limbs and the next day we went back to dreaming."

He's not looking at his hands anymore. Instead, his gaze is fixed on some indeterminate point on the wall, although she can tell from his distant expression that he's not really watching the bricks, but some long suppressed memory playing out on his retinas. She doesn't know what to say, how to comfort the suddenly open and _vulnerable_ man beside her because it's always been the other way around, with the architect going to the point man for reassurance or advice. Yet something tells her that at this moment, in this particular pocket of irreversible time, they are not architect and point man, only Ariadne and Arthur, trying to make sense of the reality that dreaming has forced upon them.

"I quit after that," Arthur says, still staring resolutely at the wall. In the silence, his soft voice sounds several decibels louder than usual. "I'd had enough of being a puppet and…Well, you know how my father reacted."

"Did you ever – "

"Explain?" He smiles grimly. "I tried more than once but he wouldn't listen – said I was a disgrace to his name. So I dropped the name, spent a few months studying and took the first flight to Cambridge when I got their letter." His words are matter of fact and his tone composed, both of which only serve to make Ariadne wonder how much effort it costs him to say them.

"Why Cambridge?" she asks instead, unable to picture a rebellious pilot fresh from the air force being satisfied to peg away at the university.

A ghost of his familiar semi-smile tugs at his lips and Arthur turns his eyes from the wall back to her. "You are definitely the most inquisitive girl I've ever met," he murmurs. "I went to Cambridge because that's where the dreaming technology the military used was developed, and by then, I knew the only thing I wanted to do was to keep dreaming."

"And how did you meet Eames?" she asks, ignoring his inquisitiveness remark. Curiosity had killed the cat, but Ariadne has always prided herself on being several rungs above the feline in the evolutionary ladder. To her arrant surprise, Arthur's face flushes and he sounds awkwardly embarrassed.

"My father pretty much disowned me after the air force fiasco and Cambridge tuition isn't cheap, so I had to resort to more…_creative_ methods."

"Like what?" she demands, her brain bursting with images of Arthur taking up pizza delivery or mining or taxi driving or prostitution or drug dealing or –

"I met Eames at a casino," Arthur replies eventually. "Counting cards." He smiles ruefully. "He was having one of his legitimate fits at the time, offering his expertise in cheating to the managers. He caught me and I got thrown out. Of course, he came to find me after he got bored with staying on this side of the law again. Made me his business partner on the spot.."

A sudden thought flashes through Ariadne's mind. "Is that why your totem's a die?"

"Yes." He lets the die tumble to the ground and it lands, four facing up. "It's sentimental, but it reminds me of everything that dreaming has brought me. I don't have to make a living cracking casinos anymore." He picks the die back up and shoves it in his pocket. "You're the only person that knows all this besides Eames, and I was far from sober when I told him. But I suppose I owe you that much for trusting me with your dreams."

Ariadne nearly blushes at her hypocrisy. She considers telling him the truth, but now does not seem like the best time to broach the subject, not when she's just lectured him over _his _lack of trust. Ailin's dire predictions surface for a moment, but she banishes them to the back of her mind.

"You should go home," Arthur tells her after a moment of silence. "Get some sleep."

"Can't I sleep here?"

The question slips out unconsciously, borne from a fear of waking up to find everything a dream, before she can ponder its implication. She notices with trepidation that he's still holding her hand, but it's too late to pull away now. As if reading her thoughts, Arthur raises their linked fingers and studies them with an expression that fills her with delight but also nervousness.

"There are bound to be blankets somewhere in this warehouse," he says, standing and pulling her up with him.

When Ariadne finally falls asleep under the blankets Arthur manages to scavenge out, the only dream she has consists of two dancing snowmen.

* * *

**Ahem.**I would like to say that I know nothing about how the US military is run and that what I wrote is purely for the sake of providing an interesting story. I have nothing but respect for the men and women of the air force.

**Now for a few disclaimers.** The Messerschimitt 262 was the world's first jet plane and the V-22 Osprey is, as far as I know, the only American aircraft designed specifically for use by all four military branches. _The First Days of Spring _is a 1929 painting by Salvador Dali, which most people speculate representated his relationship with his father. And finally, I always imagined the song from Arthur's car to be _Blue in Green_ by Miles Davis. So before anyone sues me, I don't own any of that.


	14. Chapter 14

Thanks for all the reviews and apologies for the long than usual wait - I had to sort out some things with where I wanted to take the job. But it's finally starting, which means more plot and less fluff! I will leave you to interpret the exclamation as good or bad.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

"He doesn't look like the same person slouched over and drooling, does he?" Eames asks, peering down at Frechette, who, having drunk his fill of Bordeaux, is now sprawled out across the Hôtel Lotti's pristine sheets.

"Definitely not," Ariadne murmurs, wiping the Frenchman's spittle from her sleeve and sincerely regretting ever volunteering to check if the man was properly asleep.

"Well you won't have to look at him much longer," Arthur assures from beside her, handing her a needle. He arranges Frechette into a more plausible position on the bed and slides another needle into the man's arm. "Is the room locked?"

Yusuf nods from his chair beside the door. "I put the sign outside too, just in case."

"Good. The timer's set to ten minutes – that gives us just over three hours at the first level, which should be more than enough."

"We know all this Arthur," Eames points out, rolling his eyes. "Let's just get started so I don't have to watch him drool any longer."

The point man ignores him, eyes flickering to Ariadne instead. "You know what to do? If anything goes wrong – "

"I'll run," she completes, perfectly aware that she'll do nothing of the sort and that, in any case, there would be nowhere to run to. "Don't be so worried, you'll be with me almost the entire time."

Arthur's hand pauses over the PASIV. "Do you still trust me to keep you safe?" he murmurs, so softly that no one else hears the sudden irregular uncertainty in his voice. He doesn't say _after I shot you_ but Ariadne can read the silent addition in his searching eyes. She reaches across him and pushes the button.

"Yes."

* * *

She hears voices first, before the room blurs into focus – a cacophony of voices that reminds her of her high school cafeteria, only louder. Much louder. The colours come next and then the shapes, until the entire picture is complete. It's her masterpiece, dreamt up by Yusuf and populated by Frechette's subconscious, and she's right in the middle of it.

The room is simply designed, but elegant, with walls covered by silk drapery of different shades. Displays hang and stand in every corner, models of structures large and small, sturdy and impossible, classic and modern, and everything in between. Frechette's projections buzz between them like bees to flowers, discussing the structural and artistic merits of each. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of Eames and Yusuf standing guard at the exit in matching security uniforms. Frechette is only a few feet away, apparently arguing with his own subconscious – it takes her a moment to absorb the strange sight. When she does, she hastily makes a beeline for the other side of the room before he can spot her and takes shelter with a group around her own age. They're gathered beside a model several feet high of what looks like a literal collision between a quartz crystal and St. Peter's Basilica. Ariadne examines the structure with all the distaste one can have for a first year college project, but she really had been desperate at the time. She edges into the semicircle, cautious not to bump into any of the projections, just in case one them turns out to be a highly trained ninja in charge of overseeing Frechette's subconscious security.

"That's quite something, isn't it?" one of the group, a short, stocky man with a generous dusting of freckles murmurs. "It's…well, I can't decide whether to love it or hate it."

"It's atrocious," another man replies firmly. "On their own, they wouldn't be bad, but squished together like that?"

"I agree," Ariadne interjects before the man can continue. When they turn to look at her, she reminds herself of everything Arthur has ever taught her about talking to projections. "This combination of gothic and modern structure looks like a sad attempt to imitate Michel Frechette. It shouldn't even be at this convention – it's far below Frechette's usual standard."

A girl with red hair that reminds Ariadne of Carla Antonelli shakes her head at her words. "It might not be great, but Michel's always been lenient with the entries at these conventions of his. He says he likes to showcase different architects. And who knows, some people might like this stuff."

"Michel, eh?" the freckled man asks with interest. "Do you know Frechette well then?"

"Yes, my father works as the senior advisor at his firm," the girl replies proudly. "And I'm interning there next fall."

"Are you really?" Ariadne asks, seizing the opportunity to steer the convention away from her school project – not that the projections know – and to the mark. "I hear he's really harsh on his interns. Makes them fetch his dry cleaning and pour his coffee." A stab of guilt pierces through her for spreading rumours about the architect, but it's a necessary lie. She assuages the feeling by reminding herself that technically, only Frechette would ever hear her words.

The girl shrugs. "I don't mind. He's the top architect in the world. I'm bound to learn something from him and it looks good on my resume."

"I wouldn't say he's the _top_ architect," says another woman, older with brown hair pulled into a severe bun. "He's definitely one of the best, but there are plenty of people who could give him a run for his money. What about that Raymond Aoki?"

The stocky man frowns. "Aoki? You mean that college kid who designed the new Cobol Engineering building in Tokyo? He's a one hit wonder if you ask me. He hasn't built anything in the past five years but look at Frechette. How many has he done – three?"

"He only gets those contracts because of his godfather," the woman retorts. "Luke Caligiuri will ruin any man who dares to stand in his godson's way. I don't believe Frechette would get half of the jobs he does if people weren't afraid of refusing him. And now he's got Antonelli Labs on his side too."

"He's marrying Carla Antonelli, isn't he?" Ariadne asks quickly, surprised by how easily her job is going.

The red haired girl nods. "Daddy told me that they have lunch together every Sunday," she replies, and Ariadne is filled with gratitude for this particular projection's evident love of gossip. "And apparently the diamond on her engagement ring is so big you can't even see the rest of the ring!"

Perhaps not so grateful after all, Ariadne muses as the women immediately pump the girl for more wedding details and the men do their best to appear bored by the proceedings. She waits for a suitable lull in the conversation, nodding her head occasionally and keeping one eye on Frechette and the other on Yusuf and Eames.

"So he really likes this Antonelli girl?" she asks the moment the girl shows signs of running out of air – she'd never run out of words and speculations on exactly what the heiress would wear on her wedding day or where the newlyweds would honeymoon.

"Of course!" The girl looks shocked and a tad reproachful, as if Ariadne has insulted her personally. "Why would he marry her if he doesn't like her?"

"I don't know," Ariadne admits. "But you know all the stories about celebrities now – there's always another reason…" She trails off, hoping someone will catch the drift of her words and save her from having to say the inevitable herself.

"You mean Frechette's marrying her for the publicity? But that's ridiculous – he's twice as famous as she is and he's got a fortune to boot."

"She is sole heir to Antonelli Labs though," the older woman points out. "Nobody knows how much that empire's worth."

"There could be some business involved," Ariadne suggests cautiously, alert for any changes to Frechette's projections. However, they continue chatting as before. It puzzles her, this _passiveness_. Frechette was supposed to have sent an entire team to limbo, yet she's seen no signs of militarized suspicion. The Frenchman's subconscious feels almost friendly, not at all like Fischer's, Cobb's, or even Arthur's.

"A deal of some kind you mean?" the freckled man asks, forehead furrowed in thought. "You might have a point there."

"Well I think that's nonsense," the redhead interjects firmly. "It's obvious that they love each other and anyway, people only marry for business in books." There's an anger in her voice irrational for a practical stranger that makes Ariadne wonder if Frechette's conscious thoughts are filtering through her words.

The brown haired woman chuckles. "That's your age talking. When you're young, you love with your heart, once you get older, you'll do it with your head."

Ariadne nearly gives herself away with a splutter that she just manages to disguise as a cough. Her grandmother had once told her the same thing from across the old, scarred kitchen table, age withered hands busy with clicking knitting needles. It's strange that the projection should mention it; she'd always credited the saying to the silver haired, papery cheeked woman who'd wiped away the tears of her first broken heart. The realization that the words had not been unique and tailored for her stings with unexpected disappointment.

"I still don't buy it," the girl replies stubbornly.

The freckle faced man grins. "To each their own. I never thought of it, but now that you mention it, I can imagine Caligiuri and Antonellis striking a deal over this marriage. They're both in the pharmaceutical business – maybe they're planning a merger of some kind."

"I always thought they were competitors," Ariadne points out, tearing her thoughts away from her grandmother and back to the job at hand. "Would they really want to merge together?"

The man lifts and lowers one shoulder. "Maybe it's a ploy to get rid of each other. These business relations always confuse me – I guess that's why I took up building things instead."

The talk drifts around back to architecture and Ariadne herself drifts away. Whether or not she's done her job and aroused Frechette's suspicions against Antonelli she has no idea, but it would be rather blatant if she tried to swing the subject back to the impending marriage again. She meanders through the crowd of chattering architects to another group near the doors, gathered around a swaying structure of filigree and fibres. A display panel nearby identifies it as Frechette's own contribution to the convention.

"This is _amazing_." The words come from a tall, olive-skinned woman bent over the model. As she talks, the fibres wave to the rhythm of her breath. "I've never seen anything like it."

"What else would you expect from _the _Michel Frechette?" another woman asks. "His work is always spectacular. Smart buildings – no one else could have thought of that."

The words fill Ariadne with pride, but also disappointment that she can't proclaim the model as her own work. Still, there were worse things in life than having her work mistaken for Frechette's.

"I wonder where he gets his talent from?" her friend asks. "There aren't any architects in the family, are there?"

"From what I know, Frechette doesn't have much of a family," someone else answers. "His parents died in a car crash when he was little and he was raised by his godfather."

"Luke Caligiuri doesn't strike me as a particularly inspiring role model," the first woman mutters. "It doesn't take much genius to sit in an office and give orders."

Ariadne clears her throat and the woman turns. "He'd have to be pretty smart to have succeeded for so long, especially with all that competition from Antonelli Labs."

The implication sounds so obvious to her ears that she's surprised the projections haven't jumped on her yet. The sign only sign of discontent comes from the woman herself, whose forehead wrinkles in a frown.

"There are different kinds of genius," she tells Ariadne after a moment. "Frechette has the true artistic kind and his godfather, the wasteful conniving kind."

One of the women laughs. "He'd need that to even stand a chance against Antonelli. Those two have taken dirty business to an entirely new level."

"I wonder what they'll do once Frechette and Carla Antonelli get married," Ariadne muses quietly. "Do you think they'll start getting along?" she adds, almost as an afterthought.

"I doubt it – wouldn't be surprised if they used the connection to their own advantage."

A buzz of questions follows immediately as her friends press her to explain exactly what she means. Satisfied with her work, Ariadne sidles to the front of the room. The lack of any retaliation on the part of Frechette's subconscious bothers her a little and makes her worry he doesn't quite understand her hints. Whether or not he does, she doesn't dare to be any more obvious.

She stands quietly in her corner, talking to the odd architect who passes and dropping more hints to the business aspect of Frechette's marriage, but mainly watching the mark wander up gradually from the back of the room. The moment he reaches the front doors, less than an arm's length away from Eames and Yusuf, Ariadne's hand crawls up behind her back and gives one sharp tug on the red box hidden there.

The piercing wail of the emergency alarm breaks out over the ceiling speakers and pandemonium ensues as projections push past each other to the nearest exit. Eames and Yusuf grab Frechette and escort him out the main entrance, guns raised to ward off the crowd of panicking architects. Once they leave, Ariadne slips out unnoticed through a side door hidden behind the drapery.

The moment the door closes behind her, Ariadne breaks into a sprint down the dim hallway. She wishes she'd thought to cover the halls with carpet; her shoes collide so loudly with the smooth tiles that she swears the entire convention centre can hear. It's a relief to burst though the swivelling glass into the busy sunlit sidewalk. The street is so full of suits and heels and taxis that no one looks twice at Ariadne as she speeds through the crowd, disconcerted by the lack of attention. It doesn't at all mesh with the tanks and soldiers she'd expected to populate Frechette's mind.

She walks down one block, turns right and halfway down another one to the hotel. It's neither large nor grand, nothing like the one she'd just been in. It had been Arthur's idea to use a rundown establishment rather than the five star ones Frechette usually occupied; he would never see the place and the security would be less stringent. It had seemed like an excellent plan at the time, but Ariadne regrets it as her entrance into the lobby draws some less than pleasant remarks from the unkempt, rather hairy men lounging over the ripped sofas.

The elevator, when it arrives, is blissfully empty. It takes her four jabs with her thumb before the grilled iron doors consent to close and the elevator slowly rattles up, and then another two jabs to open the doors halfway when it finally stops on the third floor. She thanks the fates for her tiny stature as she squeezes through the broken doors.

Arthur looks up when she enters the room. "How did it go?" he asks immediately.

"Good, I think," she replies, closing the door behind her. "I said as much as I could without giving the whole thing away." Ariadne looks around the small room, but sees no signs of anyone else. "Are they not here yet?"

"In this traffic, driving might not save them any time. Give them a few more minutes. How does Frechette's subconscious feel?"

"It feels too friendly," Ariadne confesses. "I was expecting more…resistance, but the projections don't seem to suspect anything, not even when I talk to them."

He frowns. "You felt it too?"

The question surprises the architect. "Why, did you?"

"No," he says slowly. "But I didn't see anyone downstairs while I was setting the charges, and that alone worries me." He toys with the remote detonator in his hands, turning it over and over again. "Did you see anyone when you came up?"

"I didn't see the other floors, but there was a group of ten or so people in the lobby," she replies.

Arthur's hands freeze and he fixes her with a disconcerting stare. "Are you certain? There were ten of them?"

Ariadne thinks back, counting them mentally. There had definitely been six on the two couches and three standing behind the back couch. She remembers people at the window too, but isn't sure how many, and a group had just come in when the elevator arrived. "I'm not sure. There might have been more, maybe fifteen."

"There were only seven people there when I came," Arthur tells her. "And that was including the receptionist and bellhop."

"They probably came after you," she replies. "There were still people coming in when I was there."

"Maybe," Arthur murmurs, but he doesn't sound at all convinced. "Projections don't usually like to move around. They tend to pick a spot and stay there."

"It might be part of Frechette's defence then," Ariadne suggests. "Maybe they sensed us here and came looking for us."

Arthur shakes his head. "They'd be looking for the dreamer and Yusuf isn't here."

"And now he is," she replies as the door clicks open and the forger and chemist come pouring through, dragging an unconscious Frechette after them. "What took you?"

"You wouldn't think it to look at him, but that man weighs a ton," Eames answers, dumping the Frenchman unceremoniously on the worn carpet and slamming the door shut. "I hate skinny French people," he declares loudly, taking care to step on Frechette's crisp suit as he crosses the floor.

"Talk any louder and you'll have the entire hotel on us," Arthur warns him.

"Normally, I would scoff at that but with the amount of people in this place, I'm actually tempted to listen."

"How many people were in the lobby when you came in?" Ariadne asks curiously.

"At least fifteen or twenty," Yusuf replies, pulling a duffel bag out from under the single bed. "But we passed a bunch more up the stairs."

"Bloody elevator was broken," Eames mutters. "Who designed this place again?"

"Never mind about that," Arthur interjects hurriedly before Ariadne can give the forger a piece of her mind. "The point is, there are more projections down in the lobby every time we check."

The forger shrugs. "I'm more bothered by their lack of hostility than their numbers. That can't have been a very good team Antonelli hired if they were sent packing by this lot. They're about as threatening as kittens."

"Too many of anything can be dangerous," Arthur replies. "Even kittens have their limits."

"If you're that worried, you should get going," Yusuf points out, handing them each a needle. "The faster we get done, the faster we can get out of here." He settles a pair of headphones beside Ariadne. "The music's my ten second mark, so that'll give you just over three minutes," he reminds her.

The architect nods and closes her eyes as the sedative bubbles through her blood. The last thing she sees before the darkness is Yusuf barring the windows. Then comes glaring white light and a familiar warmth around her hand.

* * *

**More disclaimers:** The first crystal/St. Peter's basilica building is inspired by the ROM, which I think is absolutely hideous. They should not have clashed those two buildings together, especially not on such a busy street. It belongs in an open space, not downtown. The second model is from something I saw on a CBC documentary, but I can't remember who designed it, except that he was Canadian. The building was basically built from fibres that would react to people moving around it or to sounds, and his concept was to create a smart building that could adjust colours, temperature, etc. like a mood ring, which is pretty epic. So I don't own the ideas behind either model.


	15. Chapter 15

Hurray! Another chapter! I am going to fail my university applications and SAT because of Inception. Oh well.

I realized on reading back that I use a lot of overly long sentences, so I'm trying to "vary my sentence structure", as my English teacher would say. Now I have a feeling there are too many short sentences. I also realized that I sort of lied about "no fluff"...I will change that to "attempts at less fluff" because putting Arthur and Ariadne in the same room basically negates any no fluff laws.

Thanks for all the reviews! As a gift, you should, if you haven't already, go watch The Axis of Awesome 4 Chords song on Youtube for further proof that you don't need a lot of musical talent to be a pop star.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Put this on," Arthur whispers, shoving something small and circular into her palm. It's cold and smooth but digs into her skin. Ariadne opens her hand and stares at it for a full five seconds before Arthur's mouth moves back to her ear.

"Now," he murmurs, and she slides the ring onto her finger as a woman clad from head to toe in black passes them, followed by a blonde man and a tall redheaded woman. It takes Ariadne a moment to realize that the man is Frechette and the woman, Eames.

"Don't stare," Arthur instructs, shifting her frame around to face a giant rack of white. He stands behind her, uncomfortably close, and his hand lingers over the small of her back long after she's turned. The combination of his fingers through her shirt and the mass of wedding dresses in front of her makes her feel a little light headed.

"Shouldn't we follow them?" she asks, once she's straightened out the flutters in her stomach.

"Not yet," he whispers back. "I want to find out what these projections are up to."

"By _not_ following them?"

"Yes." Arthur's hand slides down from her back to the hand wearing the ring (she stops herself on the verge of thinking _his_ ring) and he pulls her casually along the racks and mannequins to the exit.

"Why are we leaving?" Ariadne demands the moment the door swings closed behind them and they emerge onto another busy street. "I thought the plan was to follow them in case Eames needs help?"

"Eames is a veteran at this, he'll be fine without us," Arthur assures her as they weave through the cars to the other side of the road.

"Alright, but where are we going?" she asks, puzzled by the point man's sudden desertion of his beloved itinerary.

"Nowhere in particular," he replies. They stop at an outdoor café and he leads her to an empty table at the edge of the sidewalk. From her vantage point, Ariadne has a perfect view of _Madame Edith _across the street, provided that no one walks in front of her.

"What are we doing?" she asks yet again.

"Watching _Madame Edith,_" Arthur answers. There's a small, barely noticeable wrinkle above his nose as he watches the store from the corner of his eye. "I want to see if anyone else goes in there."

"And when you feel up to it, you'll explain why, right?"

The projection of a middle aged, greying man with a newspaper under his arm sits down at the table next to them and Arthur leans closer across the table. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible over the din of traffic and chatter.

"Have you studied chemistry?"

Despite his dead serious tone, Ariadne has suspicions that the point man is pulling her leg. If it was anyone else – Eames, for instance – she would have treated the whole thing as a joke. A rather strange one, true, but nevertheless, a joke. Yet the fact that it's Arthur, perfect, immaculate _Arthur_, straying from the plan, improvising even, makes the ridiculous question sound more plausible. She gives him a tiny nod.

"The mind is like an atom," Arthur continues. "The conscious mind – Frechette – is the nucleus and his projections are the electrons. And like electrons, the projection might appear to move randomly, but there's always a pattern to their movement."

"The energy levels?"

"Exactly. The projections will only move within their own level, which means – "

"There's a fixed number of projections in a particular place," Ariadne finishes as the point man's words and worry click together. "That's why you were bothered by the projections in that hotel lobby, because they kept multiplying."

Arthur smiles briefly. "It's not just a matter of the projections not liking to move, under normal circumstances, they can't. That's why the more complex and enclosed a dreamscape is, the better. It limits the subconscious' mobility, which gives us an advantage."

"So now you want to see if anyone goes into the store?"

"If they don't, then the first dream might have been a fluke," Arthur explains. "Not likely, but there's always the possibility. But if projections start moving, then there's definitely something wrong."

They sit in silence, eyes turned to the store on the other side of the street. As far as Ariadne can see, no one enters or exits and after half an hour, Arthur is forced to admit defeat. They cross the road back to _Madame Edith_. The moment the bell over the door rings, one of the store's seemingly unlimited supply of women dressed in black escorts them. Her nametag reads Marie. The smile stretching across her face is unbelievably wide as she approaches them with outstretched hands. When she opens her mouth, Ariadne is filled with the urge to strangle the airy voice from her body.

"Do you have an appointment?"

Arthur shakes his head, a small, apologetic smile one his lips. "We thought we'd just look around."

"Of course. If you'll follow me."

She leads them past the racks and mannequins Ariadne had seen the first time around and into a larger, inner room. Wedding dresses hang around the walls and in the centre are several couches and mirrors. It isn't a particularly popular design for a bridal store, but it's the only way they can watch Eames and Frechette without drawing too much attention to themselves. The architect is sitting on a sofa at the side, looking a little agitated.

"These are just a few samples of our dresses," the woman explains, waving her hands around the room. "If you have a particular style you'd like to see, just let me know and I'll look in the backroom for you. Or if you want to try anything on, let me know as well."

"We will," Arthur assures her firmly and Marie leaves with a rather disappointed expression.

"Where's Eames?" Ariadne mutters, feigning interest in one of the mannequins wearing a particularly hideous number covered in beads.

"Changing probably," Arthur replies. "No, here he comes. He looks happy, doesn't he?"

She really has to applaud the forger's considerable talent. Carla Antonelli's face looks absolutely radiant as she parades her dress in front of her fiancé.

"What do you think?" she asks, spinning around. "I think it fits better than the last one."

Frechette studies her for a moment, head tilted to one side, eyes almost closed. "It's nice," he murmurs.

Carla's face falls flat. "That's what you said about the last two," she says, all the brilliance gone from her voice. Ariadne fingers the ivory material of the garment before her and strains to hear Frechette's voice, even quieter than normal.

"They all look the same to me."

Carla's sigh before she speaks is far from inaudible. "They can't all look the same," she begins in a rather didactic manner. "The last two were so simple, and this one's got beads everywhere. You're an artist, Michel, surely you can pick out the differences?"

"My art only goes as far as building facades," the Frenchman replies with a tinge of impatience. "I warned you that I know nothing about dresses of any kind."

"I know, darling, but even a blind man could say more than 'that's nice'. You're supposed to have an opinion."

Ariadne quickly averts her eyes from the pseudo heiress, who is wearing an expression reminiscent of Eames. The bubbling laughter comes out as a strangled cough. A few projections look her way and she instinctively takes a step closer to Arthur.

"And my opinion is that you look equally stunning all those dresses," Frechette concedes with a lopsided smile.

A rather undignified noise escapes from between Carla's lips, and she rolls her eyes. "Please, don't say things you don't mean. I want to be dazzling at my wedding and I need the perfect dress for that. I'm not going to wear any old kitchen rag to the altar."

"It's just a dress," Frechette grumbles, his lean frame slumping further into the couch's cushions.

"That's what you said about the cake," Carla retorts, arms folded tightly across her chest. "And the reception hall, and the flowers, and the invitations. You might consider displaying some more enthusiasm for _your _wedding."

The Frenchman runs one hand down his face with a heavy sigh. "If it was up to me, there would be no ceremony. We'd just go to city hall and get the papers."

"So you don't want to get married, is that it?" Carla demands, eyes flashing.

"Marrying you in Disneyland is not going to make me love you any more," Frechette replies. "I don't think we'd be less happy if we just eloped."

"Couples who elope are three times as likely to get divorced."

Ariadne is fairly certain that Eames invented the statistic, but he pulls it off with such conviction that Frechette appears mildly mollified and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"Alright, maybe we won't elope, but this whole wedding business is still…frivolous. I don't see the point of spending hundreds of thousands of euros for one day. Couldn't we, I don't know, donate it? Invest it?"

Even Ariadne is surprised when Carla's bright eyes well up with tears that threaten to spill over at a moment's notice. She hastily absorbs herself with tracing the pattern of lace on the dress in her hands to refrain from gawking at the couple. The employees flitting around the room appear to be thrown off by their behaviour as well. She can't tell if the atmosphere is due to shock that such a scene could happen in a bridal store or a reflection of Frechette's own evident agitation, or perhaps a combination of both.

"I didn't mean it that way," Frechette exclaims hastily, springing up from the couch to his teary fiancée's side. "I'm sorry I said anything, it was stupid of me. Please don't cry," he adds with a helpless expression as a fat drop of salty water falls from her lashes.

"It isn't just any day!" Carla sobs with a stamp of her foot that makes Ariadne hope the forger doesn't get too lost in the moment and go overboard with his act. "It's _our _day, the most important day of our lives, and I'm starting to wonder if we should just call the whole thing off. Because from everything you've said, you obviously can't care less about it! I can't even tell if you still _want_ to marry me!"

One of the black clad assistants hurriedly rushes forward to soothe and escort the weeping heiress back to the fitting room while Frechette falls back onto the sofa, utterly perplexed by the sudden turn of events. There's a light tug on Ariadne's arm and she looks up to see Arthur motioning for her to follow him. He leads her out the same way they came in, past several projections of employees who press them to visit again. It strikes her as rather odd that, despite Eames' drama queen act and Frechette's obvious confusion, not one of them treats her, the dreamer, with any suspicion.

"I don't think Eames is going to try anything else after that display," Arthur mutters as they emerge once more onto the crowded downtown street. "We need to set the charges before they get to the hotel."

"Do you think Eames overdid it?" she asks.

"I don't know," he replies curtly. His entire frame is sharp and rigid, arranged from crisp razorblade lines that give away his strained uncertainty.

"What's wrong?" she breathes, moving closer to the point man to deter any inquisitive projections from overhearing.

He doesn't answer for a moment, jaws clenched tight, and she can almost see the gears in his brain whirring to keep pace with his thoughts. "The projections," he murmurs finally. "They're all wrong. What Eames did back there – his subconscious should have caught on to it and done something.

"There's always the possibility that Antonelli was lying about the training," Ariadne says half heartedly, although if she knows anything about Arthur, it's that he would have double checked the story himself before trusting it.

He shakes his head. "Eames was testing his limits. Even an untrained subconscious would have done something. A suspicious look or a lull in conversation. Frechette is up to something and I don't know what it is."

She can tell that it costs the point man a great deal of effort to admit that he doesn't have all the answers. His hand as it brushes past her is curled into a fist and she wonders if the die is hidden in his palm. Her own fingers dig into her pocket for the bishop. Even in a dream, the metal touch of the familiar object soothes her nerves.

* * *

The hotel in this dream is a far cry from the last one; the uniformed doorman actually bows when Ariadne and Arthur pass through the double glass doors. Its interior is lavishly decorated in a colour scheme of white and gold with the occasional daub of shimmering crystal. The sight takes Ariadne's breath away, despite it being her creation and her dream. She's never seen the place populated with staff and guests before, and with a sudden jolt, she realizes that no matter how dazzling her work is, it could never be breathtaking without living, breathing people to sustain it.

They share the bedroom-sized elevator with two elderly men who look like foreign diplomats with their thick beards and tuxedos. When the elevator stops on the twenty-first floor, the doors slide open smoothly without a single mishap.

"I never appreciated the beauty of a fully functioning elevator until now," Ariadne comments as Arthur unlocks the suite door. As she'd hoped, his lips twitch from their frown to the familiar half smile.

"Comes with the job," he replies, closing the door and pulling several explosives from the dresser beside the bed. Not something hotels typically provide their customers with, but anything could be achieved with a few simple thoughts here. "There's no pension, but you get a lavish lifestyle while it lasts," he continues, now climbing onto the dresser to place the charge.

She perks on the edge of the bed to watch him. "Is that why you always dress like a fifties bank manager?"

He chuckles. In the silent, enclosed space, the sound sends shivers scrambling down Ariadne's spine. "That's just a personal preference."

"It can't be comfortable," she murmurs dubiously, thinking of stiff collars, padded shoulders and the pure torture of stilettos.

"You get used to it," he replies, jumping down with a soft thump. He moves to the table beside the window to place the other two charges. Once they're firmly in place, he sits down beside her, a little too close for comfort. He pulls a black box from his jacket and hands it to her. "It's the detonator," he explains. "Good for up to a hundred metre radius, so no need to sit right next to the explosives."

Ariadne flicks open the plastic safety and runs her thumb lightly over the bottom. There's only one and it's bright red. Idiot proof. There's no way to botch this, unless she misses the timing, and then no amount of kicking and screaming could bring them back. She flips the cover back down resolutely. No point in pondering the million and one ways for the job to crash around her ears.

"From the way things have been going, Frechette's projections won't give you any problems," Arthur continues. "But if they do, feel free to blast them." He holds out a small revolver to her.

"I can't use that!" she exclaims automatically. In her mind, she sees the impossible house on top of the skyscraper and Cobb bent over his dead wife. She does not want to hold a gun again, she does not want to shoot anyone again, not even a projection.

"You have no choice," Arthur replies, pressing the weapon into her limp hands. "If you don't shoot them first, they'll kill you. And you've got a lot more to lose than they do."

Ariadne's hand curls reluctantly around the cold metal and she sticks it deep inside her sweater pocket. "I don't have the guts for killing," she mumbles, half to herself.

"You don't need guts, just a reason," Arthur says softly. "If someone was threatening you or someone you cared about, would you stand there and let it happen when you could stop them?"

It's not a question, not really. A vision of Cobb trapped by his own wife flickers before her eyes, quickly superseded by a faceless stranger holding a gun over Eames' and Arthur's dreaming bodies. Her fingers instinctively tighten their grasp on the revolver. Could she really do it? Kill another person. No matter that they would be projections, they were still people, a figment of someone else's mind that she has no right to destroy.

"I won't do it unless I have to," she says after a moment. "I don't think I could shoot someone just because they're in the way."

"I'm not asking you to," Arthur replies. He clears his throat. "Just…keep yourself safe."

Ariadne nods, not trusting her voice to speak without a tremor of some kind that would expose her – not fear. Apprehension. She's never been totally alone in a dream before, and definitely not with the additional charge of standing over three dreaming corpses – She swallows hard. Not the right word to use.

Arthur seems to be on the verge of questioning her, no doubt because of the expression that Ariadne is certain must be on her face, but a loud ring cuts him off. He fishes his cell phone from his suit and, after several seconds, snaps it shut. His frown is back.

"Frechette is out," he tells her, standing up. "And Eames doesn't sound too happy."

"What do you mean he doesn't sound too happy?" she demands, following him out the door. In her rush, she barely registers the projections that brush past her on their way to the elevator. "Did something happen?"

Arthur jabs the twenty-two button and the doors slide closed. "I don't know, but judging from his language, I would assume so."


	16. Chapter 16

Thanks for all the reviews. 400+!

This chapter was by far the hardest to write. There are a lot of things that look brilliant in your head but don't turn out so well in black and white.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Eames' expression is almost livid when he opens the door. Ariadne has never seen him like this before and she reminds herself to never anger or irritate the man. Unfortunately, she seems to have already done so, for he ignores Arthur and whirls on her the moment the suite door clicks closed.

"Now would be a good time to explain why there's a city in the closet," he spits out from between gritted teeth.

"A city…?" Ariadne is entirely taken back by his words. She isn't even quite sure what they mean. As far as she knows, the closet is just a closet. She wonders if he has had a bit too much to drink with Frechette.

Arthur pulls himself together before she does. "What do you mean by a city in a closet?"

"Exactly what I said." Eames pulls open the sliding closet beside the door, meant to hang coats and jackets but also where their PASIV for the next dream is. Only when Ariadne looks in, there's nothing but bright blue sky above a metropolitan that resembles some of the older neighbourhoods in Paris. As far as she can tell, if she takes a step in, she'll be standing in the middle of a cobblestone road. It's the strangest sight she's ever beheld and if it not for the gravity of the situation, she would have laughed. As it is, she pulls back, shaken.

"Care to explain?" Eames asks, treating her to a terrifying stare that could easily replace Medusa's. Arthur takes a step closer, half blocking him from her view.

"I…I didn't build this," she murmurs and berates herself for the tremor in her voice. "It shouldn't be here."

"You're the dreamer – you're the only one who could've put this here, even subconsciously."

"I didn't build it," Ariadne repeats, louder and steadier this time. "And if I remember correctly, Cobb brought a train into Yusuf's dream."

Some of the accusation fades from Eames' eyes, although he still looks angrier than she's ever see him before. "Can you get rid of it then?" he asks. "We have enough to worry about without this too."

She tries. She really does. But the flowing control that's always come so easily simply isn't there. No matter how hard she concentrates, the sky and streets stubbornly refuse to budge from the closet. After several minutes, the only thing she manages to achieve is a pounding headache. The effort leaves her physically exhausted, as if she's just sprinted a mile.

"I can't," she gasps, collapsing into a chair. "It won't move."

"That's impossible. You're the – "

"I think we've already established that a lot of things in this dream are supposed to be impossible," Arthur interrupts dryly, sliding the closet door closed. "We don't need to get rid of what's behind there. We just need a PASIV to take us to the next level." He turns to Ariadne, who's slumped in her chair. Part of his professional composure seems to crumble away. "Can you make one?"

Ariadne nods and closes her eyes for good measure. She imagines the machine's sleek silver case, the intricate array of tubes inside, the spongy centre that would release the pent up sedative at a touch. In her mind's eye, it lies on the thick carpet, open and ready for use. But when her eyelids flicker open, the floor is exactly as it was: empty. She looks up hopelessly at Arthur.

"Try something else," he urges. "Anything."

She does, but without much hope because she already knows the outcome. Sure enough, the mirror across from the bed doesn't shatter.

"I can't do it," she sighs, trying hard to keep the frustration out of her voice. Disappointment too, that she can't do something as simple as dreaming. She looks away from Arthur and Eames and focuses instead on Frechette, who lies with one arm dangling off the bed. The thought that has been worrying the back of her mind since the job started, since Frechette's subconscious started defying the laws of dreaming, swims to the forefront of her brain. What if this whole fiasco – the closet, the inability to create, and the screwball projections – is her fault? Granted, there are no phantom Arthurs chasing them and she's already stopped dreaming about him, but did that only prove her subconscious capable of creating mayhem? She can't help the words that tumble out.

"I'm sorry."

In two swift strides, Arthur is kneeling in front of her chair, dark eyes locking onto her own. "This isn't your fault," he tells her. His voice is unbelievably calm and steady. "You're a brilliant architect – don't blame yourself for something you have no control over."

Ariadne looks downs at her clenched hands, unable to bear the pure trust on his face. Would he still be saying this if he knew how much she's been hiding from him? Probably. She clears her throat, doing her best to ignore her aching head. "So what do we do now, if we can't control the dream?"

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, something Ariadne has learned signals a great deal of thinking. "We can't stay here," he says after awhile. "We have to try to finish the job, and the only way to do that is to keep going."

"Into that closet, you mean?" Eames' anger seems to have vanished as easily as it came and he's back to wearing his usual expression of careless and amused boredom.

"Yes," Arthur replies grimly. "This is Frechette's dream now. We have to play by his rules, and that includes climbing into a closet."

"And I suppose you have a plan for once we get in there?" Eames asks.

"I don't think his subconscious can entirely destroy something Ariadne's already created. Which would mean this city is only here to stop us from going deeper into Frechette's mind. It's just an obstacle we need to get past."

"That's some twisted logic you have."

"Do you have any better ideas?" Arthur challenges.

Eames doesn't answer the question, only prods the sleeping Frechette, who's blissfully unaware of how much trouble he's causng. "What do we do with this dead weight? We can't exactly lug him around with us.

"No," Arthur says slowly. ""Leave him. His own projections won't hurt him."

"Lucky man." Eames pulls a revolver from Carla Antonelli's handbag. "I'm assuming that on the off chance we don't get killed in there, we'll somehow mysteriously find ourselves back here with Frechette and a PASIV."

Arthur nearly smiles. "Let's hope so."

Eames chuckles, tucking the gun into his jacket. "To think I'd live to see you improvising where so many things could go wrong. I'm getting too bloody old. I think I'll consider retiring after this job."

"Don't make me laugh. You're not going to retire so long as you can still dress up in a wedding dress and play princess." The banter seems to have relaxed Arthur. His shoulders are less tense and even his voice sounds faintly mocking.

"Well, let's not stand here socializing all day." Eames pulls the closet door open and sunlight pours through into the hotel room. "Did I ever mention that I was never a big fan of C.S. Lewis?" he asks, footsteps clicking on the cobbled streets of the other city. "This entire situation is ridiculous."

"Many times," Arthur replies. He turns to Ariadne, who hasn't moved from her chair. The architect is unusually quiet. "Something wrong?" he asks.

Ariadne stands up quickly and immediately regrets it. A wave of dizziness collides against her already aching head. "Just a bad headache," she mumbles.

Arthur's forehead furrows with worry. "How bad?"

"Nothing that I can't handle," she replies with forced confidence, although her head feels like it's being split apart by a blunt axe.

"Are you two coming or not?" Eames calls from within the closet city. "Or am I going to have to do this by myself?"

Arthur shoots her one last look, seeking confirmation of her assurances. "Are you sure?"

She nods, clenching her teeth to numb the pain that shoots beneath her temples at the slight movement. "I'm fine. Honestly." To prove her point, she steps ahead of the point man into the closet.

The city or closet, whichever one it is, gives off a familiar feeling that reminds Ariadne of limbo. This place doesn't feel like a dream, but its own separate world. Like a parallel Earth that exists only in Frechette's subconscious, yet is every bit as real as the Hotel Lotti, where the architect's physical body is. She breathes it all in: the clear sky, the buildings lining the streets that are caught halfway between the antique and the radical, the spring breeze that lifts her hair. Another stab of pain torpedoes through her head.

"Look at the projections," Eames mutters. He walks in front of her with slow, confident steps, but the hand thrust into his jacket gives away his unease. "They're all – "

"Children," Arthur completes from behind, his breath tickling Ariadne's neck.

"Is that normal?" she asks as a freckled girl runs past them with a curious look. She can't imagine why Frechette's subconscious would suddenly decide to project itself in the bodies of ten year olds when it had been perfectly fine with people of all ages just a few minutes earlier. Another question to add to the ever growing list.

"No," Eames replies, "but I gave up on normal a long time ago. It sure beats a guns blazing SWAT team though." He stops abruptly, having turned onto a cul-de-sac, and she nearly walks into him. "What is this?" he grumbles loudly. "Who puts a dead end in the middle of nowhere?"

Ariadne stares at the brick wall blocking their way, and then back at the narrow streets sprawling in every direction with sides ruled by buildings that are all roughly the same height. A sudden thought clicks into place. "It's a maze," she breathes in astonishment. "This entire city's a maze."

Eames stares at her. "How can you tell?"

"There are patterns to mazes," Ariadne replies. "I've been designing these since my first year of college." In the adrenaline of having finally uncovered something about Frechette's subconscious, her headache is temporarily forgotten. "We just need to get through it."

"That's easier said than done," Arthur mutters from behind her. She turns to see why and just catches sight of a pair of large eyes disappearing around the corner, accompanied by a familiar metal barrel. Her insides freeze and one hand instinctively curls around the gun in her pocket. It does not help that everyone who passes treats them to a suspicious stare. All of a sudden, she understands why horror movies always incorporated at least one pale, silent and wide-eyed child. Even Mal, shaking the bars of her prison, had not brought the same feeling of terror to her stomach.

"Well, that's one problem solved," Eames says lightly. "At least they're acting as expected now. Let's not stand around and wait to find out why." He whirls around and quickens his pace, seemingly oblivious to the heads that turn when he passes. Ariadne moves to follow him, but Arthur tugs her back.

"Other way," he mutters and pulls her along in the opposite direction. "Staying together is the easiest way to get us all killed. We'll attract too much attention."

Ariadne is nearly positive that the saying goes the other way around, but wisely decides not to mention it. "Why aren't we splitting up too?" she asks, jogging to keep up with his longer strides. Each step sends another jolt of pain through her head.

Arthur's grasp on her wrist tightens briefly. "You're the dreamer," her answers. "They're more likely to come after you. If we can draw the projections away from Eames, he'll have a better chance of getting through." He turns sharply to avoid a pair of boys – twins – approaching them with identical, less than pleasant expressions. They're heading down a much narrower alley now, one that smells distinctly of sewage. Even with the bright sky above her, the brick buildings on either side are close and tall enough to create a tunnel of dim shadows around them. There's a circle of light at the end of the long alley, but it's quickly blocked by the silhouette of a girl small enough for Ariadne to pick up and toss in the air. She looks much more menacing when she moves closer and the semi-automatic in her pudgy fingers becomes visible.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, and Ariadne is shocked to hear a quiver in her voice that sounds like any other little girl. She'd expected someone cold and murderous behind the gun, someone with no trepidation. The tremor of fear throws her off and she hesitates in her path, long enough to watch the trigger jerk back. The bullet explodes down the barrel at the same time Arthur shoves her roughly through a doorway.

"Are you hurt?" he demands, slamming the door behind them. They're in a warehouse of some sort. In the dim light, she can see wooden crates stacked on top of each other against the cement wall. The room is empty, although Ariadne can hear shouts outside, no doubt from projections surrounding the building.

"I'm fine," she assures him, pressing her hand against her cheek, where the bullet had narrowly grazed her skin. Her face is warm with air friction and her head is still throbbing, but when she pulls her hand away, there is no red on her palm. "What's happening?"

Arthur shakes his head silently, busy peeling off his jacket. It's only then that Ariadne notices the stain blossoming out across the sleeve of his white dress shirt. Something in her heart stops, not because of the blood, but because it's Arthur's blood; Arthur who'd pushed her inside and then taken a bullet through his arm.

"I need you to wrap it with something," he tells her, interruping her thoughts. Even through clenched teeth, his voice is steady. "It isn't deep, but I'd rather not leave a trail everywhere I go."

Ariadne nods. She wants to say something, thank him or scold him, but her throat is too tight to force any words through. Instead, she busies herself ripping the bullet hole in his sleeve wider so she can get to the arm underneath.

Once, when she was little, Ariadne had lost control of her bike racing down the steep gravel path beside her grandmother's house. The tires had skidded out from under her and she had tumbled and flown over the handlebars into a heap at the bottom of the slope. She'd needed twenty-nine stitches and a cast. Yet what she remembers isn't the pain of gushing blood and fractured bones, but the doctor's cheery chatter about disinfectants and anaesthetics. She tries to do the same now as she winds her scarf tightly around Arthur's arm.

"What's going on?" She doesn't mention any specifics, but he understands.

"I'm not sure," he replies. "I've never seen anyone react to extracting like this." He winces as she tugs on the scarf.

"Sorry," Ariadne apologizes. She loosens the makeshift bandage. "What do we do now? We can't stay here forever."

"No," he agrees. "We'll leave when no one's looking and try to get out of the maze." She notices that he doesn't say anything about finding the PASIV, or Eames for that matter, and getting back to Frechette.

"Arthur?"

His gaze flickers to her and she takes a deep breath, wondering if she's crazy.

"When you were studying at Cambridge, what was it like to have more than one subconscious in the dream?"

Arthur freezes, his arm tense under her hands and Ariadne knows he can hear her real question. "You think – "

"Professor Miles only told me that it makes the dream unstable," she says quickly. "But all those projections – what if they aren't all from one subconscious?"

"You can't have more than one subconscious in a dream without chemical induction," he replies firmly.

"What about Cobb?" she asks, not swayed. "He brought Mal with him everywhere."

"That was different. It was just one projection, not an entire subconscious."

"But it's possible?" she presses. She needs to know if there's even the slightest chance that it's her subconscious outside. If it's her fault that Arthur is bleeding all over the floor. If she's become as dangerous as Cobb.

Arthur doesn't speak for a long time, long enough for her to tie off his bandage with a butterfly knot. When he finally answers her, it's with a question of his own. "How's your headache?"

The sharp pain in Ariadne's head is still there, slightly worse than before but pushed away by more urgent matters. "The same," she replies, perplexed by his strange question. "Why?"

"When we tried to get more than one subconscious in the dream, they overpowered the dreamer," Arthur answers slowly. "Most of us got headaches from trying to sustain the dream. My professor used to say it was because the dreamer was the one most vulnerable to the subconscious." He stops and pinches the skin above his nose. "But I don't know whose subconscious would be in here besides Frechette's."

Ariadne clears her throat nervously. "It couldn't be mine, could it?"

Arthur turns his head sharply to look at her. "Is there something that you're not telling me?"

"I…" She chokes on the words and has to start again. "I've been having these dreams – " Before she can say any more, a hail of shots rings against the warehouse's metal door, shaking the entire room. Arthur grabs her and pulls her into a corner, beside the tallest pile of crates.

"Tell me later," he mutters. "We need to get out of here." He scans the room rapidly, his gaze settling on a small window just above them. "Think we can fit through there?" He doesn't wait for her to answer and, grabbing her around the waist, heaves her toward the ledge. With a lot of ungainly scrambling, Ariadne manages to pull herself up next to the window. She unlatches the glass and pushes it open just as another round of bullets rattles the building.

"That door's not going to hold much longer," Arthur says, hauling himself up beside her. The silk around his arm, which had been pale blue earlier, is already crimson in places. Ariadne forces herself not to think about what will happen if they don't wake up soon. How deep did a wound have to be for someone to bleed to death?

"There's no one outside yet," she replies, swinging the window as wide it will go. There's barely two metres between her and the ground. She crawls through the small space and jumps. The landing jars her headache and she stumbles into Arthur, who'd just landed behind her. She hears his involuntary breath as her head bumps into his bandaged arm.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her before she can apologize. "Let's go before anyone sees us." He pulls her hurriedly down the deserted alleyway, away from the sound of gunfire shattering the warehouse doors. She wonders how they can ever find their way out of the maze if each and every street looks exactly the same. This one is so similar to the last that she half expects another little girl to step out of nowhere with a loaded gun pointed at her face.

They're on the verge of turning onto another street when a figure emerges from around the corner, one that's too tall to be a child of any age. Ariadne recognizes it immediately and pulls out her gun without a second thought, but her finger freezes on the trigger when the projection cocks his own, considerably bigger gun. She sees Arthur's eyes flicker toward her, but doesn't know how to answer the question in his gaze as all her nightmares come flooding back at once.


	17. Chapter 17

Thanks for all the reviews! Last update before school starts...Afterwards, they'll most likely be once a week. :( On the upside, I've finally decided on an ending, so I can say with certainty that this will last somewhere between twenty to twenty-five chapters.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

The projection looks far more like the point man than Arthur does. His three piece suit is spotless, his hair is neatly slicked back and the familiar half smile tugs at his lips. The gun pointed at Arthur's head does not waver.

"Do you really want to shoot me?" he whispers softly in the same tone that the real Arthur might use to ask her if she was cold or if she needed a ride home. The warmth in his voice sets off butterflies in her stomach and she has to fight to keep her aim straight.

"Ariadne, just shoot him." She can barely see Arthur standing beside her, frozen in place by the projection's gun. "At this distance, he won't have time to react before the bullet hits him."

"Are you sure?" the projection murmurs. "Do you want to risk his life on that?" He steps closer and Ariadne instinctively backs up so that the distance between them remains the same. "Do you want to risk _my_ life on that?"

"You're just a projection," Ariadne answers shakily, tightening her grip on the gun. _Shoot, shoot, shoot_, her brain chants, but her body refuses to obey. She understands now why Cobb had hesitated until it was too late to act. Even though her brain knows it's only a pale imitation before her, her heart recoils at the idea of shooting someone physically identical to Arthur.

The projection chuckles. "Maybe I am just a projection, but how do you know that I can't be hurt? If I'm part of someone's subconscious, how do you know you won't be killing a part of them by shooting me?"

Ariadne swallows hard. This is exactly what she'd been afraid of, why she had not wanted the gun in her hands. The first time, she'd shot Mal on instinct, without really pausing to think of the consequences. Afterwards, she'd seen the look on Cobb's face as the projection died and had known that a part of him had vanished with the shade of his wife. What else would she be destroying along with the projection?

"Ariadne, listen to me." Arthur's voice is as clear and steady as his shadow's, despite being covered in blood with a gun cocked at his head. "He's just a projection. Killing him won't do anything to the subconscious. I've done it in hundreds of dreams and nothing has ever happened to the mark."

"This isn't exactly a typical dream, is it?" the projection asks quietly. "Do you want part of Frechette to disappear?" He pauses and Ariadne swears she can see a glint of Arthur in his dark eyes. "Or part of yourself?"

"I could live without you," she replies, thinking of the hours of terror and insomnia he'd caused her. Still, she can't bring herself to pull the trigger.

"Do you think this is all that I am? What part of you conscious mind would you be killing if you killed me?"

"He's not your subconscious. If he was, he wouldn't be threatening you."

The projection's mouth twitches into a smile so exactly like Arthur's that it takes all of Ariadne's self restraint not to lower her gun. "Wouldn't I?" he murmurs and she remembers the panic and fear that had accompanied the projection of Arthur in her dream. Her subconscious had attacked her once before, couldn't it do the same again? Or could she get there first and shoot him? But what part of her would die with him? The nightmares had already disappeared – would she wake up from this dream to find a piece of herself missing? Would blasting this projection mean that her heart would stop beating faster when she saw the real Arthur? _But at least you'll be alive_, the small, rational part of her brain argues. _And so will he._

The projection must see the decision in her eyes, for he moves in until he's less than a foot away from her. "Or maybe I'm not your subconscious." His voice is so low now that she can barely catch the words. He tilts his head towards Arthur. "There are three other people in this dream. What's to say I'm not his projection? Do you want to risk losing a part of him?"

"You're lying," Ariadne replies automatically, forcing her feet to stay exactly where they are.

The projection reaches with his free hand to play with a lock of her hair, something Arthur has never done. The touch of his fingers sends sparks of electricity blossoming across her skin. It feels real, so much like the genuine thing that she wants to drop her defence and let him sweep her away in his arms.

"And how can you be so certain?"

Images of Arthur flash through Ariadne's mind, like she's always imagined they would if she was on the brink of death. His voice, always even and self-assured. His immaculate appearance, like he'd just stepped out of a black and white movie. The sound of his laughter and the phantom tingle he always left behind every time he touched her. The confident and reassuring look in his eyes whenever she was uncertain of something. His occasional teasing and the quirk of his mouth that accompanied it. The sharp scent of spearmint on his breath. The light, barely discernible pressure of his lips against her skin, like the brush of a cicada's wing.

_If someone was threatening you or someone you cared about, would you stand there and let it happen when you could stop them?_

"Because the Arthur I know – he would never hurt me."

The jerk of the gun as it fires pushes her back several steps and she's nearly knocked off her feet. She hears the bullet spinning through air and flesh and the sound of a body colliding with the hard ground, but doesn't see any of it with her face pressed against Arthur's chest.

"It wasn't me," he mumbles into her hair through the ringing silence of gunfire. He repeats the words like some sort of lullaby and Ariadne nods, her head sinking deeper into the folds of his shirt. She doesn't care whether or not he can see; if she opens her mouth to speak, she will inevitably cry.

She doesn't know how long she stands there with Arthur's arms supporting her weight. It might be only a few seconds or possibly several hours, during which time the job lies forgotten and the only real thing in the world is the sound of Arthur's heart pounding a rough beat through his skin. She wonders how she could have ever confused the projection with him. Even with all his immaculate perfection, he couldn't live up to the dishevelled and bloody man next to her. It isn't that Arthur will never hurt her; he could shatter her into jagged shards with a single look. It's that he'll always be there to piece her back together.

Her kick back into the real world comes as abruptly as the rest of the dream has: a sudden burst of orchestra chords, followed by Edith Piaf's soaring voice. They pull apart quickly, the dream falling back into place.

"Three minutes," Arthur mutters, slipping fluidly back into point man mode. "There's no way we can go down another level now. We need to get back to Frechette, otherwise the detonator won't be within range."

"I can't let you do that."

Ariadne spins around at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and spots a profile framed by the sunlight, dangling out of the window she and Arthur had jumped through earlier. It leaps down and walks towards them slowly. Features emerge gradually from the shadows of a gangly, blonde boy, no older than twelve, with a small revolver supported by his skinny wrists. She recognizes him immediately from Arthur's manila files. Michel Frechette, age eleven and a half, had looked exactly the same. Beside her, Arthur catches his breath and she knows that he, too, remembers the newspaper clipping of Frechette with his godfather at his parents' funeral.

"I won't shoot unless you make me," the boy – Frechette – informs them. His voice sounds like a choirboy's and Ariadne notices that two of his teeth are missing. "He wouldn't have shot you either," he adds reproachfully, gesturing at the body behind them.

"How do you know?" she demands, feigning bravado. The boy's carefree smile and unruly blonde hair fills her with a different kind of fear than the projection of Arthur had. Fear of the unknown. There's a hollow, empty look in his eyes underneath the smile that tells her this is a person with absolutely nothing to lose.

"He was my projection," Frechette replies simply.

"Your – "

He grins. "It was smart, right? I saw all the dreams you had of him, so I figured it would be the best way to hold you up. I didn't think you'd kill him, but I guess I went a little too far with the act." He waves his gun at Arthur's bandaged arm. "I'm sorry about that, by the way. I only wanted to scare you."

Ariadne stares at Frechette, certain that she must be either mishearing or hallucinating, or most likely a combination of both, because none of this can be really happening. "How do you know about my dreams?" she manages to ask.

"The dreamer is most vulnerable to the subconscious," Arthur answers for him. He sounds as unfazed as always, as if this is the kind of conversation that he has everyday over lunch. "You build the dream with your conscious mind and that makes it easier for the subconscious to target your memories."

Frechette claps his hands, oblivious to the gun he's holding, and a look of delight spreads across his face. "Is that why? I never understood – it just _happens_. I asked them about it last time and they didn't know either. I guess you're just a lot smarter than they were."

"Who're they?" Ariadne asks, thinking of the team Antonelli had hired earlier that had never come back.

"The last adults that came down here," Frechette answers. His grin fades and a sad, wistful expression takes its place. "I just wanted them to stay, but they got scared and shot themselves. It wasn't my fault, was it?" he asks, gazing at them with a pleading look as if seeking for their forgiveness. "I didn't want them to die."

"You shouldn't have been trying to make them stay," Arthur answers slowly.

"But it gets boring down here with no one to talk to," Frechette complains loudly. "No one ever came to visit before." He brightens up suddenly. "Now that you're here, you'll stay here and play with me, right?"

"I'm sorry, but we have somewhere else we need to be."

Arthur pulls his gun out and manages to get his finger to the trigger before Frechette sends a bullet rocketing through his kneecap. The gun clatters down and Arthur collapses on the ground with a gut wrenching yell of pain that sends Ariadne's heartbeat racing. She drops down beside him and frantically tries to stem the gush of blood.

"I warned you that I wouldn't shoot unless you made me," Frechette hisses coldly above them. The empty laughter in his eyes is gone, replaced by a malicious gleam that doesn't belong on his childish face. "Do you know what it feels like to be locked up?" he whispers harshly, half to himself. "To be put behind bars in your own brain and have to relive the worst moment of your life over and over?" He whirls his gun on Ariadne. "Do you?"

"No," she answers shakily.

"Now you do." Frechette keeps the gun trained on her with one hand and waves wildly at the blood splattered alley around them with the other one. "Do you have any idea what this place is?"

She shakes her head a fraction of an inch, not daring to move any more with the gun barrel between her eyes.

"It's a maze," Frechette spits out. "A prison so that Michel Frechette could forget about me and live a perfect life."

Through the haze of numb fear and confusion, Ariadne manages to latch onto one question. "Aren't…Aren't you Michel Frechette?"

The boy smiles grimly. "I thought you'd never ask. You can call me Jean."

"Jean?" she murmurs.

"He's a piece of Michel Frechette that's broken off from the rest," Arthur whispers through clenched teeth. Ariadne can see his eyes flickering in the shadows, piecing the puzzle together. "He's developed an entirely separate personality and subconscious. That's why the dream is so unstable." Even through the pain, she can hear the incredulous awe in his voice. "Frechette has more than one subconscious."

Jean's smile widens. "You're really very clever, aren't you? Even with that hole in your leg, you still have the energy to think."

Arthur chuckles weakly and winces as he moves and more blood pours out from his knee. "If I was really clever, I would have seen this coming. None of this showed up in my research. You need a traumatic even to dissociate. So what happened to you?"

Jean doesn't answer at first. In the absence of his voice, Ariadne can hear Edith Piaf's reverberating off the walls. She wonders how much longer they have until they miss the kick. Less than a minute? And what would happen afterwards? Would they be stuck forever with the pieces of Frechette's subconscious? She puts her hand in her pocket to grasp the bishop that would never fall again and her fingers brush against sharp, straight edges.

When Jean finally starts to speak, his voice is thick and raspy, like that of someone with a bad head cold. "When I was little, my parents used to take me to watch the fireworks on New Year's Eve. We had dinner at this really fancy restaurant in Paris first. I didn't like it because there were so many forks and knives, but Maman said we couldn't have McDonald's for New Year's. But she left me have chocolate cake for dessert."

He smiles as if remembering the taste. "Afterwards, we used to drive to this really tall hill to watch the fireworks. Maman called it our secret place, because we never saw anyone else there. And then we took the long way home so we could see the stars. Everyone was always in the city to celebrate, so there was never anyone on the highway, except – "

Jean chokes on his words and, despite the gun pointed at her head, Ariadne feels a rush of pity for him. She knows what happens next, had read about it in the official police records that Arthur had given her. The Frechette family had been driving through farmland when Michel's mother had lost control of the car and swerved into a ravine. Both his parents had died and Michel himself had spent a week recuperating in the hospital.

"It's really dark outside," he continues shakily and Ariande notices the sudden change in tense. There's a glassy look in his eyes, like he's not really there anymore. "Maman's showing me all the constellations when a truck comes out of nowhere right at us. She tries to avoid it. There's a lot of light and sound and something – glass – cuts me and then suddenly everything is still and I'm lying on the floor and I can't move."

There are tears splashing onto the cobbled road now. Ariadne looks away, unable to bear the sick feeling in her stomach. She wants to hit Arthur for doing this; they'd known about the car crash. Why make Frechette - Jean - relive it? There's nothing here they don't already know, no secrets to probe out.

"There's another car behind the truck that stops beside us," Jean whispers and Ariadne's eyes fly back to him. "They stop right next to me and I pretend that I can't see. They're talking in a language that sounds like French but I can't understand it. They go to check on my parents. Maman makes a noise and one of the men bends over and covers her face and then suddenly she stops." He takes a deep, rattling breath. "And then everything goes black and I wake up here."

It's a long time before he speaks again, during which time the only sound is the music echoing through the city.

"You see why you have to stay now?" he asks quietly, and for the first time, he looks and sounds like a child. A boy who misses his parents. "I'm here so that Michel can forget and now you'll be here so _I_ can forget."

Ariadne doesn't know what to say. This is not the secret she'd expected to find in Frechette's mind, nor the defence she thought she'd have to get past. She wishes desperately that she _could_ stay or even better, that the boy in front of her would turn into a rifle wielding sniper. It would make what she had to do so much easier, because she still remembers the hollow devastation of watching her grandmother slip away. But she, at least, had been able to find solace in architecture and dreaming. For her, life had continued. There had been enough to make her forget.

"You're going to miss your kick," Jean murmurs. "Ten seconds isn't enough time. Nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two – "

Ariadne flips the plastic cover just as he whispers _one_ and slams her thumb into the detonator. Her eyes flutter closed as the world comes crumbling down and she falls with Edith Piaf replaying in her ears.

_Non, je ne regrette rien._


	18. Chapter 18

Thanks for all the reviews, especially **amarula** for review number 500. Apologies in advance for this chapter, which is mainly filler and was written in between physics and advanced functions homework. Grade 12 fails.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

Ariadne opens her eyes to stuck-o-dots. Hundreds of thousands of them, blurring in and out of her vision. It takes her a moment to realize where she is, but when she does, she bolts up from the bed and scrambles to her feet, half expecting to see childish projections standing guard over her. However, the only people she sees in the hotel suite are her team mates, already removing all evidence of their presence from the room. Frechette is still lying on the bed, stirring slightly in his sleep. Even in his rumpled Armani suit, Ariadne can see vestiges of the eleven year old in his face. The resemblance causes her to instinctively search her pockets for her bishop and stand it shakily on the dresser. It tips over easily with a reassuring _thunk_. Relieved, she turns to Eames, who's nearest to her, to ask him what happened. He cuts her off with a shake of his head.

"Not here," he mutters, nodding at Frechette. "We need to leave before he wakes up."

He unlocks the suite door and steps into the richly furbished hallway. Ariadne follows him, Arthur and Yusuf just behind her. She has to keep her fingers curled around the totem as they share the elevator with a middle-aged woman busy scolding her teenaged son. The boy wears a permanent scowl under his thatch of ash blonde hair.

The crowded lobby hits Ariadne like a blast of air conditioning on a humid summer day. She can't help but wonder where all the people came from, where they're going, if at any minute the receptionist might pull a revolver out from behind the front deck. Somehow, she manages to waltz inconspicuously outside and into the unmarked van they arrived in – it seem like a lifetime ago - without attracting a single stare. The moment the car door slides closed, they all break into talk at once like a collective question mark.

"What happened?" Eames demands first, swivelling around in the passenger seat to face Arthur and Ariadne. "I spent an hour walking into dead ends in that maze and then all of a sudden I wake up back here."

There's a chorus of beeping and cursing from the street as Yusuf momentarily loses control of the wheel. "Maze?" he asks, incredulous. "I don't remember any mazes in the plan."

"The plan changed," Eames explains curtly. "Frechette decided to pull one over us and turn his bloody closet into a maze." He lurches in his seat as the van swerves again. Only his seatbelt stops him from flying out the window. "Would you watch where you're going? I didn't survive prepubescent maniacal gits just so I could wind up wrapped around a telephone pole."

His words send a sting of remorse snaking through Ariadne's heart. What was Jean doing at this very second, trapped inside the prison Frechette had constructed for him? Did he have to relive his parents' deaths again because there was no one there to help him forget?

"What prepubescent maniacal gits?" Yusuf practically squeaks.

"Frechette's subconscious built a maze into the hotel closet and filled it with projections of children," Arthur replies. "We couldn't get through to the third level."

"So we failed?"

To Ariadne's surprise, Arthur half shakes his head. "We didn't find what we were looking for, but we still dug up a few secrets. They might not be exactly what Antonelli wants, but maybe we can convince him they are."

"What did you extract?" Eames asks curiously. "I couldn't find a single thing. I even tried to talk to the projections, but all they did was try to shoot my head off."

"Frechette has more than one subconscious."

Eames stares at him. "Isn't that the crackpot experiment you were working on at Cambridge?"

"No, we were trying to get more than one person to bring their subconscious into the dream. Frechette actually created himself a new one."

The car turns sharply and he slides across the seat, colliding against Ariadne. This time, Yusuf twists his entire head around. "What do you mean he created another subconscious?" he demands while his team mates carefully pick themselves up. "Is that even possible?"

Arthur's lips twitch into a small smile as he unsnags his tie clip from the end of Ariadne's scarf. "It's called dissociation. Psychologically, we all do it to a certain extent when we daydream, but it takes a huge amount of trauma for the subconscious to split itself. It's a defence mechanism so that they don't have to remember the event."

Eames snorts in disbelief when Arthur finishes. "I've read your file on Frechette. He's lived the perfect, millionaire genius life. The most traumatic thing he's ever experienced is probably a maxed out credit card."

"His parents were killed," Ariadne bursts out, speaking for the first time since she'd woken up. For some reason, she feels an obligation to make Jean – and Frechette – understood. An exchange, for not being able to stay with him in the maze.

"Accidents happen," Eames says. "My sister died in a car crash too. You don't see kids with machine guns running around my subconscious."

"It wasn't an accident," she shoots back. "It was planned. Someone murdered Frechette's parents and he saw it." She coughs to hide the tremor in her voice and transfers her gaze to the window without really seeing any of the passing scenery. The image of a little boy crying for his parents is ingrained on her retinas. "He was just a kid," she murmurs into the stillness. "He wanted us to stay with him so he could forget."

"How did you find out?" Yusuf asks after a moment of prolonged silence. He keeps both eyes on the road in front of him, as if afraid to look back. "You said you never made it to the third level."

"He told us," Arthur replies with a heavy sigh. "We met the other half of Frechette's subconscious in the maze. He calls himself Jean. He was trying to keep us in there so we'd miss the kick."

Through the review mirror, Ariadne sees Yusuf's forehead furrow in confusion. "So how did you get back?"

Arthur turns his eyes on her. "I was hoping to find out."

For the first time all day, Ariadne finds herself smiling faintly. The one part in the job that had gone according to plan. "Physics," she says simply. "We kept thinking we'd have to get back to the hotel to set off the charges, but if the maze was in a separate dimension, then we'd physically still be in the closet and within range. It's just dimensional analysis," she finishes, half embarrassed and half delighted by her team mates' looks.

Eames shakes his head. "You university grads are all the same. Can't say five words without sneaking in some scientific lecture."

"It's just logic," Ariadne retorts. Her smile fades rapidly as she remembers why she'd needed the logic in the first place. "What are we going to tell Antonelli?"

No one replies to her question, not that it matters since, if she's honest with herself, she already knows the answer. Eames had once told her that Antonelli ran the largest underground empire in the world. Somehow, she doubts that a man like him would accept failure for an answer, even if they walked away without touching a cent of his money. He would expect a solution to his problems and, new as she is to extraction, Ariadne knows they can't tell him the truth. How could they explain the terror of a fractured subconscious to a crime lord who only wanted to know if his soon to be son-in-law was a potential threat to his business?

"I'm not set to meet Antonelli until next week," Arthur says, breaking her train of thought. "We've got a few days to get our story straight."

Eames whirls around in his seat. "There's no way to spin this, Arthur, so don't waste your time trying. We should be packing our bags and boarding the first plane out of France. The further we are form Antonelli, the better."

"Antonelli has men in just about every city in the world," Yusuf murmurs. He takes a left and Ariadne suddenly realizes that they're only a few blocks away from her dormitory when they should have been heading back to the warehouse as planned.

"Not Mombasa," Eames points out. "We could go back and ride this out. Sooner or later, Antonelli will realize he's got bigger problems."

"I can't go to Mombasa," Arthur says immediately. "Cobol still has a price on my head."

"So where do we go?" Ariadne mentally runs through the short list of obscure places that she knows. "Could Saito help us out?"

Eames chuckles without any real humour. "Saito's a completely legitimate businessman. He doesn't stand a chance against someone like Antonelli." He grins out of nowhere and winks at her. "But you don't need to worry about that."

"What do you mean?" she asks quickly. He can't mean what she thinks he does; not now, not after she's already fallen in so deep. She turns to Arthur, seeking assurance, but he doesn't look at her.

"Antonelli's only ever met me," he starts slowly, eyes fixed resolutely on his hands. "He has no idea who else is on the team, but it's common knowledge that I've worked with Eames for years. Yusuf has a pretty good reputation in the business too, but you're still new to this – "

"No!"

Her voice echoes loudly in the confines of the car, but at the moment she can't care less. "You can't leave me here. I belong on the team as much as you do, you can't kick me off – "

"I'm not," Arthur replies calmly, now talking to her shoe. "But wherever we're going, it won't be safe and it certainly won't be legal."

"Extraction isn't legal either," she argues, furious that he could even consider leaving her behind again, like a suitcase that could easily be disposed of at the end of the journey. "I knew what I was doing when I got into this, you don't need to protect me – "

"I told you she'd take it like this," Eames mutters darkly. "When will you learn that women never want what's best for them?"

Ariadne's head snaps to the front of the room. "Did you know about this?" she demands. "Have you been planning this from the beginning?"

He shrugs. "I'd be lying if I said no. The first thing we do whenever we get a new job is to leave ourselves a way out. There are more than a few people who'd like to see us dead and it's only going to get worse with every job."

"So you decided you'd just dump me if anything went wrong?" She's more hurt than angered by their decision. For the past three weeks, she's lived and dreamed extraction. She feels more at home in the rundown warehouse than she's ever felt in her dormitory, not least because of the three men sharing the car with her. To have it all taken away from her now, when she knows she could never go back to a normal life, would be unbearable.

"It isn't just you," Arthur murmurs. He's finally looking at her, but under the dim light filtering through the tinted windows, Ariadne can't read his expression. "Even when the job goes well, it's too dangerous for all of us to stay in one place. It's one of the inconveniences of the job. We can never stay in one place with the same people for too long."

"Is this how it's always going to be?" Ariadne asks, all her anger gone. She feels like a helium balloon, pumped to bursting with air and then just as quickly deflated with a sharp needle. "You're just going to waltz into my life and then leave again without any warning?"

"Do you know what happened to our last architect?" Arthur asks. His voice is deadly quiet and he doesn't wait for her to answer or guess. "He got thrown off the roof of a forty story hotel because he couldn't give our employers the information they needed."

The breath catches in Ariadne's throat. She thinks of Mal jumping off a window ledge to her death. The sensation of weightlessness with every kick. The plummet from the top of limbo. She thinks too, of projection Arthur falling to the ground from the impact of her bullet, of her thumb against the detonator and crumbling walls. And farther back, seven months ago, when she had somehow found herself back at the warehouse despite all the risks and illegalities of the job. She clears her throat.

"Sometimes you have to take a risk, or you'll never know all the things you might miss."

"It depends on the risk," Arthur replies evenly. They've pulled up in front of her dormitory by now and he gestures at the door. "The safest thing for you to do right now is to go home and act like everything's normal," he tells her. "Whatever happens with Antonelli, we'll let you know."

"You won't leave without telling me?" Ariadne asks with her hand on the door. He shakes his head and she reluctantly steps out of the car. To her surprise, Arthur follows.

"Where are you going?" Eames asks, rolling down the van's window. "We need to get our story straightened out before you go see Antonelli."

"I know," Arthur replies. "I have to talk with Ariadne about…something else."

"You do?" she asks.

"Yes." He closes the car door. "Clear out the warehouse," he tells Eames and Yusuf through the window.

Eames rolls his eyes. "No need to look down on me just because I don't have a degree. You two behave yourselves," he adds as the van pulls away from the curb, leaving Ariadne feeling extremely awkward beside Arthur.

"Are you going to ask me inside?" he asks nonchalantly.

"Um…sure. It's sort of small," she warns him, pulling open the main door. "And probably messy too," she adds, remembering that Ailin had left before her, so her bed would still be unmade.

"It's fine," Arthur assures. "I just don't want to talk outside."

"About what?" she asks, leading him up the two flights of stairs. She fishes hastily in her pockets for her keys and unlocks the scarred wooden door. The room is the same as she left it, textbooks scattered across the floor and her sheets rumpled. Arthur steps in after her and closes the door behind them.

"The projection in the dream," he starts. "He said you had dreams about me. What was he talking about?"


	19. Chapter 19

So I went to physics class on Monday completely freaked out that I didn't finish my homework and we ended up having a huge discussion about Inception, the best part being when one of the girls in my class asked the teacher what she thought about Arthur/Joseph Gordon-Levitt. And then we proceeded to spend the rest of the week arguing over the effects of weightlessness on Arthur's ability to exert force on evil subconscious security, whether or not air resistance exists in limbo and calculating the terminal velocity through various kicks. Best physics week ever.

Anyway, thanks for all the reviews. If this chapter had a soundtrack (or at least the latter half of this chapter), it would be _The Guilty Ones_ from Spring Awakening.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

Ariadne's eyes fall to the cluttered floor. She suddenly recalls her first week at the university, when Ailin had suggested that she invest in a calendar to keep track of all her assignments. She hadn't listened to the advice and sure enough, by the time October came around, she'd missed two due dates. Since then, she had taken Ailin's advice for the most part and lived to regret the few times she'd chosen not to. Now she can picture her roommate's face clearly and hear her voice warning her not to keep her dreams a secret from Arthur.

"Ariadne?"

Arthur's voice is quiet and unbearably gentle, almost hypnotic. Against her will, she raises her head to look at him. He's completely out of place in the tiny, disordered room, with his expensive three piece suit and neat appearance. With a shock, Ariadne realizes how little he fits in to her everyday life, her world away from dreaming. She'd become so accustomed to his presence over the past weeks that she'd never stopped to think how few things they had in common. She can imagine the kind of place Arthur would live in; somewhere with sharp, clean edges, rich dark colours and natural lighting. Above all else, it would be organized, something she could never achieve.

"They were just dreams," she murmurs. "They're gone now."

"Tell me anyway," he says, leaning back against her door. "When did they start?"

"After we started dreaming together," Ariadne replies reluctantly. "I kept dreaming about you…us. We'd be doing something, something random and stupid, and then – " She breaks off, at a loss as to how to phrase her dreams.

"And then what?"

She tries to swallow but can't get past the lump in the middle of her throat. "And then you…I…you'd kill me or I'd kill you and I would wake up." She feels like a coward for not looking at him while she speaks, but she doesn't want to see the expression on his face when he hears the truth. After a long moment of silence, Arthur clears his throat loudly.

"Why didn't you tell me this?" he asks. Ariadne can practically feel herself sinking through the floorboards at the forced monotony of his voice. She desperately wishes she's anywhere but here, watching her faint resemblance of a relationship with Arthur crumble into dust and fragments with every word she utters.

"Would you have let me keep dreaming if I'd told you?" she mumbles miserably. Each syllable causes her more effort than the last, until she's certain that the only thing coming out of her mouth is a string of unintelligible gibberish. Arthur's heavy sigh, however, signifies otherwise.

"No," he admits, "but do you have any idea how much danger you were putting yourself in? You should have told someone – "

"I told Eames," she murmurs.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You told him, but not me?" There's a distinct coldness in his expression that sends irritation flaring through Ariadne.

"I had no choice!" she replies loudly. How could he still think after everything she's said and done, that she would ever voluntarily go to Eames instead of him? "He said if I didn't tell him then he wouldn't let me go into the dream." In her frustration, Ariadne makes the mistake of looking Arthur in the eye. She immediately regrets it as a wave of dizziness washes over her.

"Why did you want to go on the job so much?" he asks, moving away from the door toward her. The movement combined with his expression is enough to give Ariadne tunnel vision. She takes a step back and grips the edge of the desk behind her until her fingers feel like they're going to fracture.

"I love it," she replies haltingly. "It's a chance to create something new."

"So is architecture." Arthur's whispering by now, but in the dead silence Ariadne has no trouble picking out the words. "You went on the Fischer job because of Cobb, but now...Why are you so afraid of having to stop dreaming?"

"Why do you want me to stop?"

Arthur closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. "This is the only way I _can _dream anymore. But you – " He stops, coughs and starts again. "I know you said you want to keep on extracting, but now you know what it's really like. Are you sure you still want this life?"

"Yes," Ariadne replies automatically. Somehow, without her ever noticing, Arthur's managed to cross the entire length of the room to stand less than a foot away from her. She can smell him; not just the distinctive spearmint, but also the scent of clean laundry and something that reminds her of a Christmas tree farm. Her own house had a sturdy, more economic, plastic tree, but her grandmother always insisted that you couldn't have Christmas without real pine needles and apple cider.

Arthur looks away, fiddling with something in his hand that looks like his totem. "What does it feel like to dream?" he asks softly.

Ariadne's throat dries and she bites her lip nervously. The only feeling she can conjure up from her dreams is fear. Fear of killing Arthur or being killed by him, neither of which she thinks he wants to hear.

"Like this," she says after a minute, waving one hand at the small space between them. "Like you're falling and you don't know what's going to happen, and you can't do anything about it."

The briefest of smiles flickers across his face. "I miss that feeling."

"Do you?"

"Yes," he replies simply. "It's what reality feels like – not being in control and never knowing what to expect."

"Isn't that the point of dreaming?" she asks. "To keep everything in control?"

"Is that why you dream?"

_Yes_, her brain says, but somehow the words that come out are not the same. Even in the silence, Arthur has to lower his head to catch her reply.

"I don't know."

She wishes she was back in math class, where there was always an easy, concrete answer. You were either right or wrong; the grey area in between didn't exist. It's both what frightens and exhilarates her about being with Arthur. Things that were solid and very much real suddenly became fluid and impossible to grasp in his presence. Where she had been so certain about dreaming only a few minutes ago, she finds herself unable to answer even a simple question. He'd called it the feeling of reality, but it reminds her more of a kick. An infinitesimal moment in time that could stretch out into an eternity, where the world suddenly rearranges itself into a new, yet half familiar pattern.

Arthur stares at her so intensely that Ariadne is positive he's slowly burning a hole through the middle of her forehead. She returns his gaze as best as she can and soon finds the tunnel vision starting to creep back around the edges of her sight. Arthur takes another step, closing the small gap between them. Her heart skips several beats when she feels the vibrations of his chest as he speaks.

"Then you should stop while you still can. You don't know how lucky you are to still be able to dream."

"I wouldn't call it lucky," she mutters bittelry. "Dreaming about getting killed by you every night - "

"That's exactly why you should stop," Arthur tells hers steadily. "If you stop dreaming with me, your nightmares will stop."

"They've already stopped," she replies. "After that dream last night. I won't be a danger to the team anymore – "

"This isn't about the team," Arthur interjects. "The more you dream, the harder it is to find what's real. We'd like be like Mal and Cobb – " He breaks off, realizing his slip and tries to backtrack, but Ariadne cuts him off.

"Why do you think we'd be like them? Why couldn't we be different?"

"It's not that easy," he answers slowly. "People like us – extractors – have enough difficulty keeping dreams and reality together without dreaming with the same people all the time."

"What about you and Eames?" she asks bluntly. "And Cobb? You've worked with them for years."

"That's different. You – I – " All of a sudden, he looks uneasy with their proximity, although he doesn't pull away. "The same rules don't apply to us," he finishes quickly.

"Is there an us?"

The four simple words hang between them like a heavy translucent veil. Their own iron curtain, with the exception being that it could easily be swept away if Arthur would just say something. Anything. Ariadne counts the seconds as they tick by loudly on her Donald Duck alarm clock from third grade. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Whatever his answer, she could move on with her life. She hates this careful balancing act they've been playing out over the past month, with no end in sight. Rejection and disappointment she can take, but not the constant waiting on tenterhooks.

Arthur's reply is so quiet that she nearly misses it in the hypnotic rhythm of the clock. "I don't know," he murmurs hesitantly.

"Could there be?"

"Easily."

"Then why – "

He doesn't let her finish, cutting off the query with fingers to her lips like the shadow of a kiss. "Not now," he murmurs. "Let's…wait until the job is done."

"So you can pack up and go?" Ariadne demands. There's so little space between them now that she can feel the dangling end of Arthur's tie brushing against her shirt. She's half tempted to tug it off and make him experience a quarter of the unease that she's feeling. It would at least be easier for him to breathe without the restraint at his collar and maybe the air would clear his head.

"I wouldn't leave without telling you."

"But you'd still leave."

Arthur sighs, his breath sweeping against her forehead. "If I stayed, I'd end up doing something rash and impulsive."

Her heart quickens with a miniature spark of hope that slowly blooms into a small flame. "Impulsive can be good."

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches into a small, lopsided smile, and he bends closer until their noses are touching. Ariadne's heartbeat, which had been pounding a second earlier, is barely discernible over the rush of blood that floods her brain when Arthur raises his hand to brush a strand of stray hair away from her neck. His thumb lingers against her cheek, sketching irregular ellipses of goose bumps on her skin. She's light-headed and half scared and completely unsure of what's happening, but when Arthur's lips press against hers, she feels like she can fly.

Nothing could have prepared Ariadne for this sensation. It doesn't feel the least bit like Arthur's dream, when the contact had lasted only a fleeting millisecond. She can feel the smooth curves of his fingers against her neck and the wood digging into her skin as he presses her closer against the desk. She can imagine what they look like beneath her closed eyelids, Arthur's tall frame obscuring her smaller one. For a brief moment, she wonders what would happen if Ailin walked in. Then his free hand finds its way to the small of her back and she forgets about everything except Arthur and the touch of his heart beating a rough rhythm under her fingertips.

He pulls away gently after a moment that doesn't feel nearly long enough, leaving Ariadne swaying slightly from the lack of air. He lowers both hands to her waist and holds her steady against the desk. He's still smiling, but there's a flash of uncertainty in his eyes that sends the gravity of the situation spinning back into place.

"What are we doing?" she asks softly, barely opening her mouth. She's afraid of speaking too loudly. Words would cement the suspicion into inevitable fact, and that, in turn, would mean the end of whatever it is that they've started in the tiny confines of her dorm room.

Arthur shakes his head. "I don't know," he replies for the second time. His grip on her side tenses. "Do you…?"

"Yes," she breathes.

He doesn't reply, only watches her intently with both eyes. She gazes back steadily more out of necessity then choice, because if she looks away, she knows their fragile world will shatter. The uncertainty in the depths of his eyes flickers for a few more terrifying moments, and then vanishes, sending relief spiraling through her.

"I guess this means I can't leave," he murmurs slowly.

"No," Ariadne agrees, a tiny smile of tugging at her lips. "Not unless you take me with you."

Arthur grins faintly. "Is this whole thing a bribe?"

"No!" she replies indignantly. "I – "

"I know," he whispers and brushes their lips together again. This time, Ariadne doesn't hesitate before returning the light pressure and letting herself sink into the folds of his unbuttoned suit. Without really realizing it, both her hands make their way up to his collar and she somehow manages to fumble his tie loose. For a moment, the kiss deepens before Arthur traces his lips slowly along the curve of her cheek and down her jaw line, leaving behind dozens of light butterfly kisses. One hand trails up from her back to unwind the end of her scarf, gradually exposing her neck and collar bone. The touch sends electric tingles scurrying across every inch of her skin. The blood recedes from her fingers until they feel like ice. She clenches them numbly around the edges of Arthur's jacket to stop them from trembling.

Arthur pauses with her scarf dangling loosely from his hand. "We should stop," he murmurs against the bare skin at the base of her neck. "Before we..."

He trails off into silence, and slowly moves his head away. Ariadne reluctantly uncurls her fingers from his suit and drops them to her side. Shivers prickle down the deep V of her neck and shoulders. Without her scarf and his warm breath, she feels exposed and underdressed. She pulls her hair forward, suddenly self-conscious.

"Here," Arthur says, holding up the loose curls of hair with one hand and carefully draping her scarf back around her neck with the other. She wishes he would stop and simply go back to holding her, because she's certain that at any minute, her legs will give out completely and she'll tumble to the floor, taking him with her. Which, in retrospect, would not be such a bad thing.

"Thanks," she whispers hoarsely when Arthur finishes. His hands drop back down to either side of her, supporting her weight again. Looking up, Ariadne takes in his appearance and her lips curve into a smile. The tie that she'd pulled apart hangs uselessly around his neck and the collar of his dress shirt is crooked and limp. His suit has fared little better, the lapels rumpled by her fingers. He looks better, a million times better, than he had when he'd walked in. Quite apart from the faint laughter in his eyes and the full, genuine smile that makes her want to kiss him all over again, he looks like he _belongs_ in her tiny, unorganized room. In her life.

"So I guess we..." Ariadne waves her hands vaguely, trying to come up with the perfect words to explain the rush of emotions inside her. "We stay...together?"

Arthur nods slowly, never taking his eyes away from hers. "At least until the job's done," he replies. He doesn't sound overjoyed by the arrangement. Nevertheless, there's a hint of relief in his voice that tells Ariadne he's just as glad as she is that this isn't goodbye. "After that...I don't know. And I think we should keep it like that."

"You do?" Ariadne repeats, surprised. She'd expected him not to have an answer yet, but she'd also thought that he would have been desperate to find one.

"Yes." His smile changes into a teasing one. "Have you been listening to Eames tell you all about how I never do anything without having at least two backup plans?"

"Something like that," she admits, embarassed.

"Well, he's right, most of the time. But this..." He tilts her chin up with one hand and Ariadne swears that she's falling headfirst into his dark eyes. "I really don't know what we're doing," he tells her seriously, "and I wasn't planning on this at all, but - " His glaze flickers down and he catches her lips in another kiss, so quick that she would have missed it if not for the freefall sensation in her stomach. "I think it feels right."

"Me too," Ariadne replies softly, her lips twitching into a smile. "But where do we go?" she asks. "You can't go to Mombasa and nowhere else is safe."

"I'll think of something," Arthur assures her. He lowers her chin and runs his hand absentmindedly through her hair. "You should study," he murmurs. "Your exams are tomorrow."

"I know."

"I should go check up on Eames and Yusuf," he adds, but he makes no attempt to move. If anything, he tangles his hand further in her hair and pulls her closer. There's a split second of indecision, and then Ariadne reaches up and tugs gently on his tie. Arthur's head bends easily under the light pressure. She catches the flash of a smile in his eyes before her own eyes flutter closed and she sinks back into the scent of spearmint and Christmas.

* * *

**Cough.** So I was going to save this..._thing_ for the end, but I figure this gives me more opportunity to write intense fluff. And I guess it takes away from the chick flick first kiss ending. I did originally plan to have super angry Arthur pop up for their talk, but I think this is better. He gets to be confused and _not_ all-knowing instead, which is equally scary.


	20. Chapter 20

Wow. It's been a super, super long time since I've updated. **Thank you so much for sticking to this**. I'm really sorry about the long wait, but in my defense, grade 12 is Hell in disguise as an 'educational experience that you will treasure for the rest for your life'. I'll leave the rest of my excuses and **important news stuff** to the end so you can get to the story faster. I apologize for any grammar mistakes - with 2 maths and 2 sciences, my English has gone waaaay down the drain.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

__

_

* * *

_

**Chapter Twenty**

She's six years old, waltzing across her grandmother's pocket handkerchief of a lawn, her head tilted back to catch the first snowflakes of the year. It's not even Halloween yet, but winter comes early in Moncton. The flakes are small and sparse; they melt on her tongue before she can taste them. It will be a few weeks before the real stuff gets here – thick, fluffy crystals of snow and ice, perfect for snowball fights and igloos. Snow angels too, but not when her brothers are watching. They would see it as a sign of weakness marking the inevitable transformation from androgynous younger sibling to annoying baby sister.

She races backwards after that one elusive snowflake and stumbles over a loose rock that sends her sprawling onto her back. Only instead of hard, icy ground digging into her spine, she falls onto freshly cut grass prickling against her bare legs. It's summer, and gut instinct tells her she's exactly twelve years, ten months and three days old. Her last day in paradise before her parents uproot the entire family all the way to the other end of the country. She stretches her limbs out as far as they can go and closes her eyes, trying to memorize every last tingle of sun and wind across her skin.

When she opens her eyes, the smell of the ocean breeze is gone, replaced by the musty scent of centuries old library books. She's sitting up, bent double over a yellowing volume on the history of the suspension bridge. Scattered over the table in front of her are even more textbooks, tables of physics constants and scraps of paper covered in scribbled sketched of half formed skyscrapers and cathedrals. Her hand moves of its own accord, feverishly scratching out the hazy outline of an intricate maze. It's only when the librarian comes rushing at her with an encyclopaedia in one hand and a metre stick in the other that she realizes she's vandalizing a priceless first edition with her improvised doodles.

She makes a mad dash for the exit and finds herself at her first day in Professor Miles' class again, back when she'd furiously tried to copy down his words verbatim before realizing that half it was irrelevant nonsense. She's watching him pace up and down the aisles of desks, doing her best to follow his rapid rambling when he suddenly turns and stares straight at her. In those eyes, she sees not her professor, but his daughter, the half crazed shadow of a once brilliant woman. From there, it takes the smallest stretch of her imagination to see Cobb's face swimming in front of her, and then Jean, looming ever bigger in vision. The revolver supported by his skinny wrists matches the one in her own hands. It's a game of cat and mouse, only she isn't quite sure who the prey is.

He makes the decision for her with a twitch of his forefinger that sends a bullet ricocheting through the barrel. She ducks, and her whole body falls through the cobbled alleyway that's no longer stone, but air that stings her skin and eyes as she rushes down through a kick with no end. Just when she's certain that she's doomed to freefall forever, she slams into solid ground, her impact cushioned by something soft and hard and strangely familiar in shape. She catches a faint lingering scent of peppermint before her senses suddenly fizzle into nothing.

* * *

Ariadne wakes to the sound of electric quacking set on a loop. Reaching one hand out from under the covers, she gropes blindly at the air beside her head and manages to hit the snooze button. She opens one eye a fraction and squints at the chipped and faded clock face. _Seven-thirty_. Too early of a start to a day of lazy, post-exams relaxation. She berates herself silently for forgetting to switch off the alarm and pulls the quilt tighter over her head. Fate, however, has different plans for the architect. A heavy weights thuds onto her back, accompanied by Ailin's bright voice practically bubbling over with excitement.

"Come on Ariadne, get up!" She emphasizes each word with a prod that sends Ariadne scurrying further into the sheets. With a dramatic sigh, Ailin tugs the cover from Ariadne's fingers and sits on their edge to prevent her from pulling them back up. Ariadne grumbles something incomprehensible and aims a kick at her roommate, who scoots just out of reach of the flailing limb.

"You know, that t-shirt really doesn't flatter you," Ailin remarks. "And I'm the last person who'd judge you for it, but if I were Mr. Arthur whatshisface, I'd prefer to see you in something a shade less scruffy."

Ariadne lifts her head from her pillow and stares quizzically at her cryptic words. "What are you talking about?"

Ailin flashes her a dazzling grin. "Well his car just pulled up, so I assume he's here to see you."

It takes a moment for the sentence to permeate through her sleepy daze, but when it does, Ariadne bolts upright, a million jagged thoughts racing through her mind. She and Arthur had agreed – or more like Arthur had insisted – that as a precautionary measure, they would break off all contact until after his meeting with Antonelli. Her eyes flicker briefly to the heavily marked calendar pinned up beside Ailin's bed. Two more days. Arthur never strayed from the plan, not unless something was horribly wrong. She scrambles out of bed to the open window, praying that Ailin's made a mistake even though the chances of that happening are hovering somewhere around 0.3%. One glance confirms her fears; she recognizes the sleek black car parked by the front doors immediately.

"Any idea why he's here so early when he's supposed to have left the country?" Ailin asks curiously. Before Ariadne can reply, a quiet knock at the door sends her instinctively diving back into the safety of her bed. Ailin, on the other hand, springs excitedly to her feet and stops just short of throwing herself at the door.

"It's him!" she giggles nervously, fumbling with the lock while Ariande pulls her quilt up more snugly under her chin. A moment later, the rusty bolts slide free and the door swings half open. From her bed, she can only see the door and Ailin's profile, but the voice is unmistakably Arthur's.

"Is Ariadne here?" There's an urgency in his tone bordering on fear that sends shivers shooting across her skin and makes her wonder yet again why he's here.

The curls on the back of Ailin's head bounce up and down when she nods. "She just woke up," she replies by way of explaining Ariadne's absence from the door.

"Can I talk to her?"

Ailin opens the door wider and now Arthur is visible as he steps inside and closes the door abruptly behind him. He barely glances at Ailin as she retreats into a corner, all traces of his typically polite demeanour gone.

"We have to get out of France," he tells her bluntly, scanning Ariadne's features with a relief that she doesn't understand.

"What happened?" she asks immediately, but Arthur cuts her off with a shake of his head.

"I'll explain later," he replies. "There's no time to pack, just get dressed and grab whatever you need."

Ariadne nods mutely, suddenly aware that under the quilt, she's wearing nothing but a decade old, oversized t-shirt compared to Arthur's crisp shirt and silk tie. She sits immobile for several seconds until realization dawns on Arthur. He clears his throat and gestures at the door.

"I'll wait for you outside."

She waits until the door is firmly closed before emerging from beneath the covers. She pulls last night's jeans off the floor and starts to pull them on, trying her best to keep her unsteady hands from Ailin's view. Her roommate, however, is not fooled.

"Ariadne, what's going on?" she demands, all teasing drained from her expression. "You've been acting strange all week and now suddenly this Arthur decides he's going to whisk you out of France without having the decency to ask you first?"

"I don't have a choice," Ariadne replies as evenly as she can. "I have to go."

"Of course you have a choice!" Ailin retorts explosively. "I don't understand you – you're always been the whole rights and freedoms type and now every time I ask you something, it's either you can't tell me or you don't have a choice."

Ariande averts her gaze, scared of finding the hurt in Ailin's that she can hear in her voice. In a way, she expects this, had expected it from the day Professor Miles had handed back those blueprints. She's tried and tried to cheat herself of the truth, to convince the twists and turns of her brain that she won't be losing anything.

"I thought we were friends," Ailin murmurs, her voice small and flat, deflated like a violently slashed tire.

She swallows, or tries to, but is unable to force past the blockade on her larynx, so that when she speaks, her voice is sharp and raspy with apprehension and regret. "We are. I just…I can't tell you."

"Is that really the best excuse you can come up with? I thought you were smarter than that."

Ariadne says nothing; after all, she probably deserves every insult being hurled at her and more. Nevertheless, the words leave a sharp sting reverberating in her ears as the full weight of what she's about to do settles on her. She can't put off the inevitable any longer. This is goodbye – goodbye to Ailin, goodbye to the cramped but lovable dormitory that's been her home for the past two years, goodbye to the life she's known for twenty-four years. It doesn't take brains of her calibre to know that once she crosses the thin divide between the two sides of the law, there's no turning back. Dabbling in illegalities had been one thing, but where she's headed, wherever Arthur is planning on taking her, there's no such thing as amateur experimentation. It's all or nothing and whether she's ready or not, she has to throw herself completely into it, heart and soul. Start over from scratch, with new friends, new interests, maybe even a new name.

"I'll leave you on your own to get packed," Ailin says monotonously. "Wouldn't want to be intruding on whatever it is that's so secretive you can't tell me." Before Ariadne can utter a word in protest or self-defence, she leaves, letting the rickety door swing shut with an echoing slam.

Left alone in the dusty silence, suddenly Ariadne doesn't feel so sure of her decision. She hunts methodically through the piles of dirty laundry littering the carpet for the shirt with the fewest wrinkles, all the while running through her long list of reasons for becoming a professional extractor. It's become a habit over sleepless nights but this time, the words don't flow smoothly like they used to, choosing instead to pour out in sporadic jerks and torrents.

_1. It's the only way she'll ever be able to build even one percent of the hazy structures in her mind._

_2. It pays well – she won't have to worry about paying off her student loans._

_3. It's exciting. Where else can she traipse halfway around the world every other month, and in first class too?_

_4. She can't possibly be expected to be satisfied with leading a normal life now that she's been on not just one, but two jobs._

_5. She's good at it. Even Cobb had been impressed with her designs, and he'd been the best._

_6. It has excellent job security. The demand for art décor buildings might die down, but there would always be some paranoid tycoon determined to steal all his competitor's secrets._

She stumbles across a clean shirt before she can finish the rest of her extensive list, most of which are just variations on the first few anyway, although the last two or three involve several mentions of Arthur. She's done her best to avoid any reference to his name at all – she still isn't quite sure just what will happen to them, whatever they are, but she can't lie to herself and pretend that he isn't part of the reason she's prepared to fly to some remote Pacific island instead of simply denying any knowledge of the Frechette job.

Ariadne finally manages to pull the shirt on and extract a passable scarf from under her pillow. She shoves on the closest pair of shoes and is about to pull the door open when Ailin's voice on the other side stops her. She pauses with one hand on the knob, overcome by curiosity as to what her roommate could possibly have to discuss with Arthur. Her voice echoes clearly across the less than soundproof door.

"What's going on with you and Ariadne? I've known her for two years and she tells me_ everything_, even if she doesn't want to. Now suddenly you waltz in from nowhere and she becomes as secretive as a clam."

"It's better that you don't know," Arthur replies evenly. "It's safer for you and for Ariadne."

Ailin lets out a loud, exasperated sigh. "What is this, some Italian mafia film? If we lived in The Godfather, I'd have to report you as a dangerous criminal." There's a pregnant pause, during which Ariadne can imagine the cogs turning in her friend's brain.

"You're not a serial rapist, are you? Because if you are, I'm warning you now that I've had ten years of kick-boxing classes."

"No," Arthur answers without the slightest hint of surprise. "But if I were, I would hardly admit it so easily."

"So if you're not a rapist, why are you always showing up here at all times of the day in a black car with blacked out windows, dragging Ariadne off to God knows where?" Ailin demands. "Are you an obsessive ex-boyfriend that she forgot to tell me about?"

"I work with her," Arthur explains. "We're going on a…business trip."

"You work with her," Ailin repeats dubiously. "You know, Ariadne said exactly the same thing."

"That would be because it's the truth."

"Or because you're in love with her?"

Ariadne has to bite her lip to stop herself from bursting out in a furious rant at her roommate. She forces herself to swallow back the rude words and waits on tenterhooks for Arthur's reply. There's a long silence, followed by a rustling of cloth that she imagines is Arthur shoving his hands into his pocket.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Will you be?"

"Yes."

Ailin's exhale perfectly matches Ariadne's, who hadn't even been aware she was holding her breath. In the stillness that follows, she clears her throats and pushes open the door. Both Ailin and Arthur turn around, but it's the former's gaze that she catches. There's a brief flicker of regret in the green before Ailin jerks her head in a awkward gesture that Ariadne takes to mean that she's forgiven, at least for now.

"Ready?" Arthur asks quietly. She knows he isn't talking about whether or not she's dressed, or the state of her passport. This is her last chance to change her mind, back out, erase the last six months from her memory and live happily ever after.

"I think so." She turns to Ailin again. "Tell Professor Miles I said bye. And I'll write or call, or…something."

Ailin grins suddenly. "I doubt it; you'll probably be too busy _working _to remember." She gives a quick cheerful wave, and before Ariadne can say anything else, steps back inside their – her – room and shuts the door with a resounding thud. And somehow, the sound brings a small smile to Ariadne's face, to know that Ailin had understood her well enough to do the one thing she'd been too scared to do on her own.

* * *

**Cough cough.** Whew. All that excessive (but necessary) cheesiness is done with - now I can start plottiness again. Anyway, thanks again for all the reviews (609!) and messages that make my day.

My important news (no, I wasn't lying just to make you read this) is that, after or while I get around to finishing Matryoshka, I'm torn between what I want to write. Goal number one is to finish Miseria Cantare, but that can be done concurrently with other things. So I have a few possible ideas. One is to restart Concerto in Cat as it was originally supposed to be, which is dark, depressing and significantly more serious/confusing. Idea number two is to write a bunch of Inception one-shots that would still be loosely related to Matryoshka. And idea number three is to write a prequel about Arthur and Eames that would be based on the back story from this story. I'd really really like to tackle it in first person, but it would take a hell of a lot of time to do it properly, so that would mean max one update per month, which is pretty slow.

And one other thing. After Matryoshka is done, I will eventually go back and edit it content and grammar wise. The plot won't change, but if you have any ideas about characterizations, writing style, etc. let me know so I can improve this.

**THANK YOU!**


	21. Chapter 21

Hmm...another long wait. Apologies...please don't hit me...

Anyway, thanks for reviews, messages, etc. This chapter was again written to Godspeed You! Black Emperor...somehow their music makes me write faster. It also gave me a new idea for the ending, which will make this story longer, but hopefully more interesting.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One**

"Hot towel?"

Ariadne shakes her head resignedly at the fawning stewardess standing over her, a tray of steaming towels in one manicured hand and a pair of tongs in the other. It's the fifth time in as many minutes that this particular stewardess has passed, each time with a tray of some sort. Ariadne suspects that her attention comes not so much from a desire to keep them comfortable as a need to lean as close as she can to Arthur without throwing herself in his lap. Sure enough, the woman flashes him a sweet smile with her dazzlingly white teeth before shaking her perfect curls in his face. Ariande tugs ruefully at her own unwashed hair and finds herself wishing for ten more inches and endless legs.

"Hot towel?"

Arthur, ever the gentlemen, smiles and shakes his head. When she shows no sign of letting up, he coughs and shifts in his seat until his knee is pressed against Ariadne's. The stewardess has the dignity to blush to the roots of her hair before hastily retreating with her tray of cooling towels.

"Are you going to tell me why we're going to Vladivostok?" Ariadne asks once the woman is safely out of earshot.

"Eames and I have…acquaintances there," Arthur murmurs back. "They owe us a favour."

"Acquaintances?" Ariadne repeats skeptically. She can only imagine the kinds of acquaintances Athur and Eames have made over their years of extraction, or what kind of favours they might be owed.

"Hollywood movies aren't entirely without merit," Arthur replies with a small smile. "The only people who can hold their own against people like Antonelli _are _people like him. My acquaintances figure they can hide us until we decide on our next move."

"What about Eames and Yusuf?" she asks. "Are they going too?"

"Just Eames. Yusuf opted to go back to his wife in Mombasa."

Ariadne tries to wrap her head around the image of Yusuf having a wife. As a matter of fact, she has difficulties imagining any of her teammates having a family, or even friends, apart from each other. She remembers Cobb and wonders if it's simply easier not to have anything tying you down to one place. Suddenly, Arthur's leg feels uncomfortably warm against hers.

"Something wrong?" Arthur asks, catching sight of her expression. She quickly rearranges her face into what she hopes is a look of neutrality.

"Just wondering why you showed up early," she answers. "I thought you weren't supposed to meet Antonelli for another two days."

"I didn't meet him. I went to the warehouse this morning to pack up a few last things and the place was trashed."

"_What_?"

Several heads turn in their direction and Ariadne ducks in her seat. "Sorry," she whispers, lowering her voice, "what?"

Arthur runs one hand through his hair distractedly, a sure sign of bad news. "He shouldn't have been able to find us, but I've been careless lately." He pauses for a moment, but doesn't elaborate. "Either way, we're not safe in Paris. The only reason Antonelli could have to come after us would be if he knew something went wrong during the job."

"And you think we'll be safe in Russia?" Ariadne asks dubiously.

"No. But it'll give us more time."

Ariadne falls silent, contemplating the meaning behind his words. More time for what? To fabricate a plausible excuse for Antonelli, to put him off their track…To say goodbye, mutters a tiny, snide voice at the back of her mind, and she quickly banishes the thought.

"I don't know the full extent of what Antonelli's power is," Arthur continues. "There are people working for him in just about every city in the world, but outside of Europe, they're mainly just hired men. With the right connections and price, they'll glide over us in the crowd."

This concept of being _glided over_ comes as a surprise to Ariadne. While no expert in the area herself, she's always believed in the whole 'loyalty until death' thing. Maybe not quite so dramatic, but nothing in the books and movies she's seen has contained any mention of the connections and prices that Arthur talks so calmly about. Either she's been extremely dimwitted – and the awards and merits proudly displayed in her parents' living room make her doubt this particular option – or there's more to the mysterious Russian acquaintances than Arthur is willing to tell her.

"What if he comes looking for us on his own?" she asks. "If this is so important to Antonelli that he came looking for us in Paris, won't he be on his guard?"

"We won't be safe in Vladivastok," Arthur repeats brusquely. "But we'll be safer."

* * *

The plane ride from Paris to St. Petersburg takes three hours, thirty-four minutes and twelve seconds, according to the atomic watch strapped around Arthur's wrist. Ariadne takes to making a meticulous study of its antireflective glass face and silver edges during the flight. She'd love to talk – she has dozens of questions to ask, some relevant and some leaning more towards the trivial or impertinent side, but about an hour into the flight, Arthur falls soundly asleep. She doesn't have the heart to wake him from his clear exhaustion. In sleep, his figure loses some of its usual immaculate appearance, but not much. He still manages to look more alert with his eyes closed and his hair in a state of casual disarray than half the boys at university in their graduation best. And _they_ had been French too.

She worries what to do when the plane starts its descent, but Arthur wakes up the moment the wheels touch ground with such precision that Ariadne wonders if there's a tiny chip embedded somewhere under his skin for the express purpose of jolting him from his dreams. He gives her a small smile, which sends her heart into its familiar and oddly comforting flutters, before he passes her a passport she doesn't recognize. She glances at Arthur curiously, but he's already slipped into business mode, his face smooth and perfect as he waits patiently for the aisle to clear. Ariadne riffles through the contents of the little book quickly and stops with a small shock at the second page. It's her alright – the thumbnail photo is one from her undergraduate class yearbook, but she does not remember changing her place of birth to Salzburg, or her name to Paige Streisslberger for that matter. In light of the tall stewardess still persistently standing near them, she wisely chooses not to ask.

Ariadne heart beats painfully fast when she hands the passport to a customs official once she steps off the plane. She's sure the whole airport can hear it, and even if they can't, the burly officer is bound to see the truth in her eyes. Fortunately, she seems to possess a better knack for acting then she'd thought, and she passes through with nothing more than the customary questions. Arthur, of course, goes through it all with less consternation than the most experienced businessman and seems highly amused by the shudder of relief that passes through Ariadne when they pass safely across the border.

"Do you really have such a low opinion of Eames' abilities?" he asks lightly as he leads her through the throngs of people in the atrium. "He would be offended."

"Eames did that?" she asks, surprised.

"Jobs are rare in our line of work," Arthur replies. "His talents at mimicry extend beyond dreaming. He made that for you during the Fischer job. It's always best to have a few of them lying around."

"A few?" Ariadne repeats incredulously. Were there more of these abominations hiding in Arthur's jacket pocket? Nothing could be worse than _Paige Streisslberger_, surely, but it was probably Eames' idea of a good laugh to accompany her photo with as degrading a name as he could find.

"Five or six, I think. We all have them," Arthur adds, misinterpreting her disgusted look. "Look, our ride's here." He points at a small Lear jet idling on the tarmac outside. As far as Ariadne can tell, there are no airline markings on it anywhere, and it looks too small to be a commercial carrier anyway. A chartered flight then, although she has difficulties imagining Arthur being content to travel with a plane full of tourists when Antonelli could be after them at any moment. Then another thought strikes and stumps her completely – _were_ there any tours to Vladivastok?

The plane's exact origins eldue her until she actually steps inside and realizes she has neither ticket nor boarding pass in her hand. The richly furbished interior far surpasses the first class cabin of the Fischer job, and that had been wonder enough for a girl who grew up believing downtown Toronto to be the centre of the universe and the height of luxury. Again, she wonders just exactly what kind of acquaintances Arthur has.

"I see you've made it to the castle," comes a faintly sarcastic voice to her left, and Ariadne sees Eames stretched out in one of the jet's deep red leather chairs. He doesn't look at all like a man on the run for his life. In fact, the careless grin on his face hardens her heart permanently against the forger and his Paige Streisslbergers.

"I didn't expect Bulgakov to send his private jet," Arthur murmurs in response. He frowns a little as he surveys his surroundings. "I didn't know Bulagkov _has_ a private jet."

"Times change," Eames replies in his best patronizing tones. "We haven't seen the man for over five years. Thankfully, he isn't as scrupulously unimaginative as you are, so perhaps he's managed to do something worthwhile and lucrative in that time."

Ariadne cannot but thank the unknown Bulgakov for his financially oriented imagination as she sinks into one of the luxurious seats. Even with a cloud of impending doom hanging over her, it's impossible not to appreciate the spaciousness of a private cabin after her sojourn in economy. For a moment, she allows herself to imagine that she isn't just a refugee on the jet, but its owner, heading for a month of blissful vacation. She could go to Sydney perhaps, and fully enjoy herself this time. She might even convince Arthur to go with her...The idea gives a warm, comforting feeling to her fingertips – that is, until Eames mercilessly pops her cocoon of dreams with a scathing remark about Arthur's dishevelled state.

"Who is this Bulgakov?" she intervenes hastily. Four hours cooped up in a tiny airplane seat had not put the architect into the mood for the two men's incessant bickering.

"He's an acquaintance of ours," Arthur answers. "We worked on a few jobs together before Mal died."

"You'll like him," Eames assures her confidently. "He's like you – an architect," he explains, as if all members of that cryptic species were really all one and the same.

"He's not like you at all," Arthur retorts. There's an edge of irritation that, for some reasons or other, causes Ariadne's heart to skip a beat. "Bulgakov will steal and sell anything if he's offered the right price."

"If you ever meet a moral thief, Arthur, let me know. Isn't that what your lofty Cambridge professors would call an oxymoron?"

"What happened with Bulgakov?" Ariadne asks with rather more force than necessary. She can spot a gaping hole in their decision to trust this man, but now does not seem the right time to mention it. She suddenly misses Yusuf who, if not particularly interesting or comforting, made an excellent peacemaker. "Why doesn't he work with you anymore?"

"Extraction didn't pay well enough to support his lavish needs. He thought there would be more money in stealing from the physical world."

"Is there?"

"Of course," Arthur replies, and Ariadne is surprised to hear a definite tone of bitterness. "Less risk, more reward. There will always be a demand for gold and Impressionist art. As powerful as an idea can be, there are only a few of them worth stealing to begin with, and even those don't always materialize well."

"What a cheerful idea, Arthur. You're just a ray of sunshine, aren't you? I really don't know where I'd be without your eternal optimism."

"Incarcerated," Arthur deadpans, and Ariadne is filled with the strangest convulsion to laugh and strangle the pair of them simultaneously. However, she manages to keep a straight face and clear head, and concludes that Arthur really must be rubbing off on her. She wonders briefly if her grandmother's scarf still smells like mint and pine needles.

"He was a brilliant architect, but he never really got into dreaming," Eames continues, tactfully ignoring Arthur. "In any case, he owes us more than a few favours."

"Er…if Bulgakov will really sell or steal anything, aren't you worried he'll go to Antonell?" Ariadne points out.

"He's not just a good thief, he's a first class grudge holder as well," Eames explains with a grin. "Antonelli landed him in jail years ago, but Bulgakov has never forgiven him for it. It's a bit of a hindrance really, considering his field of business."

"And you're positive he won't change his mind?"

"I don't think Antonelli would think of going to him in the first place," Arthur assures her. "But this is only a temporary measure anyway, until we decide on our next move."

"Which is _what_, exactly?" Eames asks with more viciousness than usual.

Arthur shoots him a most scathing glare. "Perhaps you'd like to honour us with your opinions, _Mr_. Eames?"

"I still say we should have stayed in Paris," Eames replies, lifting and raising one shoulder. "It's the last place he'd expect to find us. He probably wouldn't even have looked for us there. We could have laid low for a few months until he cools off, instead of gallivanting around the globe. "

"It would take more than a few months for Antonelli to cool off. And while we might have gone underground in Paris, Ariande has too many friends there-"

Ariadne makes an incredulous noise at this statement, which Arthur seems not to hear.

"-and one of them would be bound to give her away if they saw her."

"That's why they call it going_ underground_, Arthur. So no one sees=" He stops as the jet suddenly makes an abrupt and rapid descent through the clouds. "We can't be there yet," he mutters tersely, looking out the window.

Arthur is already on his feet, a gun in his hand. Ariadne's brain fails her completely and she finds herself wondering just how he managed to get that past customs when the woman ahead of her hadn't even been allowed to take her eyelash curlers aboard the plane.

"Get behind me," he tells her curtly.

He doesn't wait for her to move, but simply places himself between her and the door. Eames, looking grim with his own gun, stands beside him, leaving Ariadne feeling like an utterly useless damsel in distress. They keep their aim trained on the cockpit door, and she suddenly realizes it's the first time that she's seen either of them hold a weapon outside of a dream. Of course, she'd known that they must have one hidden somewhere, but they look strangely out of place. It's as if her dreams – _their_ dreams – are escaping, pushing out reality and filling the empty space with this dreaded, gut-wrenching void between the two.

The cockpit door clicks and rattles slightly. Arthur and Eames tighten their grips and Ariadne desperately wishes she'd paid more attention in those preschool karate classes. Her hand clutches involuntarily at the bishop in her pocket and her fingers, cold and numb, curl desperately around it as the door finally slides open.

But the figure standing there is not the man she expects. Even Arthur falters for a moment. Tall, grey and well-built, the man steps into the room, unarmed. The clipped politeness Ariadne remembers is gone from his voice, replaced by steel that makes her dig her fingernails into the skin of her palm.

"I would advise you gentlemen to drop your weapons. My pilot is prepared to blow up this cabin if I tell him to, and I assure you that I have no sympathy for your lives whatsoever. I would have left you to Antonelli's whims, but it strikes me that even dead, you'll be more use to me than him."

The dark eyes flash for a moment, briefly betraying a glimmer of emotion.

"Tell me, Monsieur _Borden_, what does Antonelli want with my godson?"

* * *

**Ahem again.** A lot of people seem to be confused by what's happening...or who the hell I'm talking about at the end. If you are confused, I suggest you reread chapter 9 to remind yourself of a character that I have sadly neglected.


	22. Chapter 22

Ah...first semester is finally over. Hopefully, this means I will have more time to write.

Thanks for all the reviews...you're awesomeness extends beyond my vocabulary.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Luke Caligiuri's question hangs thickly in the air. The absolute silence prickles through Ariadne's skin like so many pins and needles until her limbs are half numb.

The quiet settles a little lower. _This is what it must feel like to drown._

Caligiuri himself doesn't appear particularly perturbed by their lack of response. He takes a step closer into the path of Arthur's and Eames' crossed aims. "I don't have all day." His voice is deadly calm, enough to make Ariadne wonder if maybe she's seeing all this through the haze of a dream. "Drop your weapons or I'll blow this place to smithereens."

Ariadne has to remind herself to breathe as she watches the tiny blue vein above Arthur's temple pulse. She can practically see the neurons in his brain firing off escape routes and excuses at a mile a minute. His jaws clench and his grip tightens for a moment before slowly, far too slowly and clumsily for the point man that never made a purposeless move, he lowers his gun. Eames follows suit, leaving their only line of defence lying on the deep plush carpet at Caligiuri's feet. He kicks them away and they clatter uselessly off the cabin wall. He gestures at the seats.

"Sit down."

When they make no move, he smiles slightly. "I have not gone to the trouble of getting you here just to kill you. Not yet, anyway. If I were you, I would listen before I change my mind. Make yourselves…_comfortable._"

Caligiuri chuckles humourlessly as Ariadne moves out from behind Arthur. "I see I have the pleasure of the company of Monsieur Borden's secretary as well. Mademoiselle Angier, I believe? Strange how Cutter and Sons Contracting are all here in one place, fleeing to Vladivostok." His voice hardens, sending impossible shivers across Ariadne's already numb skin. "I am not a stupid man, Monsieur_ Eames_. Did you really think I wouldn't notice when your promised sketches failed to arrive?"

No answer greets the businessman and he settles back more comfortably in his chair. His faint smile reminds Ariadne absurdly of her elementary school principal. She wonders if her mind has melted under the pressure.

"In my line of business, we always prepare for failure," Caligiuri lectures them. "I confess, I had hoped for better from you. Monsieur Bulgakov spoke most favourably of your talents."

At the name of Bulgakov, both Arthur and Eames become, if possible, even tenser. Caligiuri seems amused by their reaction and chuckles again.

"You should really follow your associates more clearly. I bought Bulgakov out several years ago. He's been working for me ever since."

The sudden unravelling of all their meticulously laid out plans seems to render Arthur and Eames temporarily mute. In their silence, a sudden spark of understanding shoots through Ariadne. Her hand rearranges itself around the golden bishop in her pocket.

"The warehouse – was that you?"

He says nothing, but his answer is clear in his silence. Arthur looks at him.

"Why? Why not leave us to Antonelli?"

Caligiuri gives them the patronizing smile again. "I would have thought it obvious to an intelligent man like you. I have a deal for you. A business offer, if you will."

"What kind of offer?"

He shakes his head at Eames. "Not until you answer my question first. What does Antonelli want from Michel?"

Arthur's vein pulses again. Even Eames looks mildly uncomfortable. Ariadne almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. _Honour amongst thieves._ She clears her throat quietly and Caligiuri turns to her.

"He thinks Mr. Frechette is reluctant to marry his daughter," she tells him. "He paid us to find out why, but there were…complications."

Caligiuri's expression darkens. His fingers drum out a tattoo on the wooden armrest of his chair. She wonders if she's said something wrong, but doesn't dare to ask. After another long moment of silence, his fingers stop.

"What kind of complications?"

"His subconscious attacked us," Arthur explains, a tinge of reluctance in his voice. "He knew who we were, and he tried to stop us from leaving."

Caligiuri sighs. "Of course, of course. Jean was always very stubborn."

Ariadne jerks in her chair, all fear and numbness temporarily forgotten. "Jean?"

She thinks of the gangly blonde boy in Frechette's subconscious. The blackened revolver supported by skinny, childish wrists. The muffled sound of a voice holding back tears. The smoke and fire of a bullet ricocheting through flesh. The sharp metallic smell of Arthur's blood on her hands. The large wistful eyes of a boy who wanted to escape.

"It's what he always called himself after his parents died," Caligiuri murmurs, not so much to them as to himself. "I thought he'd gone after all the therapy, but he must still be down there…" He trails off briefly and then coughs loudly. "So that's what Antonelli said he wanted, is it?" he asks, his face and voice returning to its mask of calm indifference so smoothly that Ariadne wonders if she's dreamed the brief display of emotion. "Well, really, this makes things much easier for all of us."

"You still haven't told us what _things_ are yet," Eames reminds the Frenchman. "A deal, you said."

Caligiuri nods, all business again. "It's quite simple, actually. A trifle for someone of your reported talents. Frankly, I don't trust Antonelli. He must have had other motives in mind when he set you on my godson, and I want you to find out what they are."

"Find out what they are?" Eames repeats incredulously.

"Yes. I want you to perform an extraction on him, just like you did to Michel."

Arthur frowns. "Monsieur Caligiuri, I don't think you quite understand the gravity of our current situation. My associates and I are supposed to hand over the results of our extraction to Antonelli in two days, and he'll be after us if we don't. We need to disappear."

"And I can help you there," Caligiuri assures confidently. "In return, you will extract every last piece of information about my godson from Antonelli."

"Sir, we have _two days_-"

"I have already extended an invitation to Antonelli and his daughter to my estate in Volgograd for tomorrow night. Michel will be in Paris on business. I'll make sure Antonelli is properly sedated. That should give you plenty of time."

"With all due respect Monsieur, extraction is a delicate matter that takes time to plan. Antonelli is bound to have been trained against extractors and we would need more time than two days."

"Time which you don't have," says Caligiuri. "Not if you want any kind of protection from me."

"We can find our own way to settle things with Antonelli," Arthur replies firmly.

Caligiuri waves his protest away carelessly. "Certainly, certainly. But if I remember correctly, it's _my_ godson you tried to steal from, and _my _plane you're running away on." He pauses, and the words sink slowly through Ariadne's skin into her veins and arteries. Words that scare and numb her far more than any silence.

"So will you accept my offer or not?"

"Do we have a choice?" Arthur asks through tightly clenched teeth.

Caligiuri chuckles. "Exactly." He checks his watch as the plane makes another swoop downwards. "We'll be landing in five minutes. You've got all night and day to make your plans."

* * *

Caligiuri's estate in Volgograd is even larger than his Parisian one. From the brief glimpse of the grounds she catches as they're escorted through the rain, Ariadne immediately thinks of Dracula and Wuthering Heights, albeit with cameras and guards at every corner. The place is a fortress with no exit unless Caligiuri should choose to let them leave. And somehow, Ariadne cannot imagine the Frenchman going to all this trouble just to let them go.

At least he treats his prisoners well, Ariadne thinks to herself as she steps under the jet of hot water streaming from the tap. Whether from hospitality or unnamed personal reasons, Caligiuri had insisted that any further business wait until dinner, and then he had sent them packing to their respective rooms. She wonders exactly what kind of deal he plans on offering them. She can't see that they have any choice but to agree, locked as they are in a mansion brimming with technology and guards with no qualms about using it.

She emerges from the shower half an hour later, physically clean but her mind still reeling slightly. The stack of neatly folded clothes with the labels still attached sitting in the middle of a large armchair beside the bed do nothing for her nerves. All her size. There's even a scarf tucked between the jeans and sweater. Pale yellow patterned with golden leaves. She has to tip her totem over several times before she can put any of it on. The scarf she leaves lying on the cushions. Its crisp newness scratches her skin and it smells too strongly of department store perfume for comfort.

A soft knock on the door cuts through Ariadne's reverie. The knob turns and Arthur steps in, closing the door behind him. He stands there with one hand still on the door, as if unsure whether to stay or go. In the dim light, he reminds Ariadne of a 1950s film. He has it all – the rolled up dress shirt sleeves, the loosened vest and tie, the dark hair that for once isn't slicked back, but dripping water in his eyes. She half expects him to don a Fedora and white gloves.

"Are you okay?"

Her head nods silently of its own accord whiler her brain, having slowed down to turtle pace, works on comprehending his question. Arthur stands still for a moment longer, studying her with serious eyes. His hand slides of the brass doorknob.

"Ariadne…"

The sound of her name on his voice sets her heart beating out an irregular rhythm against her ribs. Her chest aches like she's just run a marathon at top speed. It doesn't help when he closes the gap between them in all of four strides. Somewhere in the recesses of her brain still functioning, she writes herself a mental note to never let the point man in her presence with wet hair again. Especially not when their lives are dangling by a thread that could easily be snapped by the whims of a French crime lord.

She has enough control over her body to not melt away in Arthur's arms. Despite the new clothes, he still smells like the same Arthur who'd kissed her breathless in her dormitory. It had felt like lifetimes ago with Caligiuri standing over them in the plane, but just now, with her cheek pressed against his shirt, she feels like she's never left.

"I'm sorry," Arthur murmurs, so quietly that she would have thought it her imagination if not for the trembling resonance of her fingertips on his chest. She wishes she could look at him, tell him that it isn't his fault any more than hers, or Eames', or Yusuf's, that they're here, but she can't. If she catches his eye now, it will be the end of her. She settles instead for wrapping her fingers around fistfuls of his silk vest.

They stand like this for several minutes – or is it several days? Somehow, whenever Arthur is with her, her grasp on time and reality always slips away. She could be dreaming, but she knows she isn't. Her totem lies uselessly on the bed, but she knows she could never dream the steady beat of Arthur's chest or the feel of his thumb sketching patterns across her back. Her projections wouldn't drip water onto her hair or smell like pine needles after summer's first storm.

"What are we going to do?"

Arthur's fingers stop tangling themselves in her hair. His chest falls and rises twice in quick succession. He coughs and the vibration sends blood rushing from her fingers to her brain.

"I don't know," he whispers hoarsely. "But don't worry," he adds quickly. "I'll think of something."

Ariadne raises her head with a frown and stares up at the serious faced point man. "You mean we'll think of something," she corrects.

Arthur tightens his grip around her. "No. You're not coming. Not this time. It's-"

"_Don't_ say that it's too dangerous." She struggles out of his hold. "It wasn't too dangerous when Mal stabbed me. It wasn't too dangerous when Cobb sent a freight train at us. It wasn't too dangerous when Fischer died and _I_ brought him back, or when Frechette tried to keep us in his mind and _I_ got us out-"

"This is different, breaking into a man like Antonelli-"

"And that's exactly why I should come!" Ariadne pushes him to an arm's length away. "Cobb and Yusuf aren't here to help you anymore. You need me-"

"You're right, I do," Arthur agrees so suddenly that Ariadne stops halfway through her sentence. She had expected more protest on his part and is almost disappointed by how easily she's convinced him.

"So I can come?"

Arthur shakes his head and it takes every inch of self restraint Ariadne has to stop herself from hitting him. "You're right. We couldn't have gotten through either job without you. But this is different. Whatever's in Antonelli's subconscious, we're not going to be prepared for it. Eames and I have experience – we can handle whatever's in there on our own."

"So you're just going to ditch me?" she demands angrily.

"I'm going to keep you safe," Arthur replies quietly.

"By leaving."

"Fifteen minutes," Arthur murmurs. "That's all I need." He closes the gap between them again, and backed up as she is against the chair, she has nowhere to go. She can almost feel both her anger and resolve crumbling and looks away.

"Please don't make me go down on my knees and beg."

The request catches Ariadne completely off guard. "Would you really?" she asks, both eyes fixed resolutely on the pale grey buttons of his shirt.

"If it keeps you safe."

Silence falls between them. She concentrates on the sound of Arthur's breathing, its irregularity tickling her face. Somewhere on the other side of the walls, a man – probably one of Caligiuri's numerous guards – sneezes. Footsteps approach the room and then fade away down the hall. A door slams.

"Fifteen minutes," she whispers hesitantly. Arthur's breathing quickens, then stops altogether, and he inches closer, until her knees are pressed against the chair. "Will that be enough time?"

She doesn't hear his answer because her legs finally give way and she collapses onto the seat. She would have taken Arthur with her too, if he had not had the presence of mind and the reaction time to stop himself from tumbling on top of her. Nevertheless, he falls far enough for their lips to touch, completely driving all thoughts of further arguing out of her head. She's amazed by how easily her body rearranges itself around him, but even more so by how wonderful the skin along his jawline tastes. He mumbles something in her ear that she doesn't hear, but sends sparks skittering through her anyway as his lips brush against her neck. She's positive that she was wearing a scarf just a few seconds ago, only she can't seem to feel it anymore - can't really feel anything besides Arthur, his fingers tracing reckless paths across her skin and-

_Bang._

Arthur shoots up, pulling her with him. Disoriented as she is by the sudden excess of oxygen in her system, she's conscious enough to wish that she had a weapon of some sort - preferably something heavy - that could send Eames and his all knowing smirk packing back to Paris. He surveys them from the door with an expression that she can't quite read, but knows she doesn't like.

"Well..." The forger struggles to keep his face straight. "I suppose there's no time like the present to relieve our anxieties."

Arthur makes a soft noise at the back of his throat that could be assent or embarassment, or the two rolled together into a particularly nasty hairball.

"You'll excuse me if I don't join you though. You look busy enough as it is, and I really don't want to intrude."

"Of course not," Ariadne murmurs. She feels oddly underdressed with her scarf dangling uselessly from Arthur's hand.

"Just in case your raging hormones feel up to it, I thought you'd like to know that Caligiuri found us a PASIV. It's outdated, of course, but it still works."

"Right."

Eames' hand twitches on the dooknob. "Well, that's all. Enjoy yourselves." He retreats out of the room and half closes the door before suddenly pushing it back open.

"Did I mention that there's a crazy Frenchman holding us hostage until we extract some top secret information from an even crazier Italian? And that both these men would like nothing better than to kill us? So...I don't know...maybe the pair of you would like some time to prioritize your lives?"

"We'll keep that in mind," Arthur murmurs. Ariadne notices that the back of his neck seems to be oddly pink. Suddenly, Eames' interruption doesn't feel so unwanted after all. Now if only he would shut up and leave...


	23. Chapter 23

Reviews are an eternal flame in an otherwise dark and cruel world. They're like the elementary charge, or maybe Avogadro's number, the constants essential to solving any equation. They make the world (my world) an infinitely better place to inhabit. Can you tell that I've been analyzing too many literary devices in English class?

On an unrelated (kind of) note, I am abandoning my fictionpress account on the basis that what I write outside of fanfiction is more musing than story. Instead, I will be moving my original fiction to my blog. The link is on my profile.

Finally, enormous gifts of appreciation and thanks to **AAnnieN** (why can't I type dots on here?) because she is an epicly awesome (epawesome?) person and writer. I am (trying to) mentally composing her a symphony as I type.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"Fifteen minutes."

Ariadne nods and silently sets the PASIV's timer for a quarter of an hour. Arthur and Eames go through the meticulous processes of making certain that Antonelli really is asleep. Caligiuri had assured them that the Italian would 'sleep like a hibernating bear' until morning, but so many of their assurances had crumbled over the past forty-eight hours. None of them wanted to take any more chances with pre-established facts.

"He's out," Eames announces, giving Antonelli one last violent shake. The limp body jerks on the bed like an electrocuted rag doll. A twinge of pity snakes through Ariadne. It is, after all, their own carelessness – incompetence, even – that forced them here. They could be sitting on a beach, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, lounging in a four star hotel, _anywhere_ but here. Any place that money could buy them, if they had just extracted what Antonelli wanted from his future son-in-law. She finishes setting the timer and jabs a needle into the blue-green line traversing the sleeping man's arm with rather more force than necessary.

"Careful," Arthur murmurs briefly. He closes one hand loosely over her arm. The light pressure is enough to induce sparks across her skin, sparks that jump the small gap from wrist to fingers. Ariadne knows it's impossible, that she would be an electrocuted pile of ash if it were true, but still she thinks that the current might just be enough to light up Paris for a few nights.

"No need to impale him."

Arthur grazes his thumb over her pulse point and she nearly sends the needle right through Antonelli's muscles and bones.

Eames coughs loudly from the other side of the bed. "I hate to break up the love fest, but we don't have all day. I'd rather not take any chances with this sedative."

The fingers slip away as quickly as they came and the point man becomes all business again, sharp and efficient in his movements. Ariadne follows, going through the motions of all the last minute checks on autopilot while wishing that she could be half as calm as Arthur and Eames are. She has never been the one to stay behind and take care of her teammates' dreaming bodies. Granted, she's only ever been on two jobs, but now, with their fortunes hanging on this one extraction, doesn't seem like the right time to be experimenting. She is neither soldier nor thief, and the thought stings the back of her throat with fear. What chance does she have, with her petite frame and inexperience, against whatever their host or target might spring on them?

"Ready?"

Arthur is staring at her steadily, indifferent to Eames' pointed looks between the sleeping Antonelli and the ornate clock above the bed that ticks away precious seconds. In the dim light radiating from the single lamp on the nightstand, his eyes are darker than usual, but as always, incomprehensible. She wonders what it would be like to just sit there, staring and breathing, until she learns to read every minute expression that flickers through them. How long would it take her? Days, months, decades – or maybe he had gotten so out of the habit of emotion that she would never be able to tell.

"Ariadne?"

Once again, it's Eames that brings her back to reality. Ariadne bites her lip and a trickle of scarlet iron and rust drops onto her tongue. She wrenches her gaze away from Arthur to the digital numbers flashing on the carpet. One five zero zero. Antonelli, of course, is sleeping already, his soft snores mingling with the clock's mechanical ticks. Eames is sitting back in the armchair on the opposite side of the room, beside the heavy, closed curtain. Arthur, having sacrificed dignity for comfort, is on the floor, his back against the bed. Ariadne can't see him, but she knows he's still watching her. She doesn't understand why people talk about gazes burning holes when her entire body is on fire. Slowly, but steadily, she's burning.

Fifteen minutes. It's only fifteen minutes. Nine hundred seconds of sleep and silence and nerves dangling over the edge of the Burj Khalifa. Her hand hovers over the PASIV for a moment of indecision before she presses it into the spongy yellow disk.

Unconsciousness is immediate. Arthur's body, tense as always, relaxes and his head slumps against his shoulder. Ariadne shakes him gently. Once she's convinced herself that he's under, she rearranges his body into a more comfortable position and places a pair of old headphones over his ears. She checks her watch. Thirty seconds already gone. Her heart slows a little from its maglev pace and she lets out a breath she doesn't remember holding. Fourteen minutes. Ariadne shifts herself off her knees and into a sitting position. The door is locked and there are guards roaming every hall, should Antonelli have some kind of planned attack up his sleeve. There is nothing to do but to wait, wait, wait…

* * *

"_Arthur?"_

_Both Arthur and Eames look up from their respective desks. Eames' eyes swivel from point man to architect before he goes back to fiddling with the dilapidated equipment that Caligiuri had provided them with, albeit with a smile that really doesn't belong on his face. Arthur stops tapping at his laptop and watches her passively. _

_Ariadne clears her throat. "About this… job," she says slowly, searching for the right words, "what if it doesn't work out?"_

_He says nothing, fidgeting with his pen instead. It's such a rare sight to see him so unsure of himself, that Ariadne almost relishes it. These are the moments she wishes she had more of, the moments that she tucks away in the dusty, unused corners of her mind, the moments that her dreams are made of. Moments where Arthur's façade crumbles, and she sees the man that he could have been – the man that she knows he still is, buried underneath layers of shirts and vests and ties. Moments where she can almost imagine him in jeans and a t-shirt, doing the things that normal men his age did. Then she remembers that she doesn't know his age, doesn't know if he's ever so much as considered owning a pair of jeans, and that if he was anything but Arthur, she would have no reason to cherish these moments._

_Arthur stops clicking his pen and places it back in his vest pocket. He shifts forward in his chair and leans both elbows against his knees. Something red glints between his long fingers. Ariadne's stomach clenches and her hands twist together of their own accord. The plastic die glows a dull faded colour in the dim light. It's three in the morning and only black coffee and chocolate is keeping her conscious; she's never been more worried in her entire life and there are a million and one things still left to plan and draw and build. Yet somehow the only thing she can grasp and hold onto is the loaded die and the remembrance of the rough calluses on Arthur's hand from years spent gripping loaded guns._

"_It depends," he answers finally._

"_On what?"_

_They both watch the die in his fingers. Eames coughs and sneezes, but Ariadne barely notices. Arthur lets the totem fall from his hand to the desk and they both hold their breaths as if they don't know that the answer will always, _always_ be the same. Loaded dies don't lie._

_Arthur scoops his totem back up and drops it into his pocket to join the pen. His voice and gaze are both steady. "On the nature of the not working out. If we fail to extract anything from Antonelli and Caligiuri is desperate enough, we might be able to arrange a different deal with him. If we find something and he refuses to hold up his end of the deal, then we'll be back to running."_

"_So it all depends on Caligiuri?"_

"_Yes," Arthur replies, but this time he doesn't meet her eye. She knows he's lying, knows that he isn't really answering her question, and that he knows he isn't. She knows all this without having to see his face, knows it from the break in his voice and the pounding of her own heart. She knows too, that he could have easily hidden that break, looked her straight in the eye, and given her the same answer._

_But maybe, he's as tired as she is of pretending._

_Because that's exactly what they've been doing, pretending. Making believe that they can continue on like this indefinitely, whatever _this_ is. That they can take it all in stride, one day at a time, living for moment by discrete moment, while life passes them by in continuum. But she knows and he knows that this is childish and naïve, an embodiment of the high school romances that they are anything but. The shades of grey disappeared long ago, obliterated the moment Professor Miles had handed her that blueprint. She feels like they've been hurtling toward this moment ever since, the answer that she both knows and doesn't know._

"_Ariadne?"_

_He's looking at her again, but his voice is so soft that she can barely make out her name. She suspects this may have something to do with Eames, who, as far as she can tell, has stopped tinkering with the PASIV altogether and is the same bright shade of crimson that she normally associates with boiled lobsters. Not a pleasant sight, even at the best of times._

"_We'll be fine," Arthur whispers, fixing her with a gaze that suddenly seems to make the room drop a few degrees. She can't help the words that tumble out, or their accusing tone._

"_Will we?"_

_Arthur's lips twitch into a crooked half smile. There's no break in his voice when he answers._

"_Yes."_

* * *

The counter reads seven more minutes when a soft tap on the door sends Ariadne shooting up to her feet. She holds her breath, and hopes against hope that the knocker will leave.

"Papa? Are you there?"

Carla Antonelli's voice is soft and childlike, nothing like the loud and rather obnoxious voice Ariadne remembers. Her hand inches towards Arthur's gun lying on the dresser. The knocking becomes more insistent.

"Papa? I know you're there. Can you open the door?"

Ariadne wonders how long it would take Carla to react if she opened the door. Two seconds? Was that enough time to fire? The knocking stops and for a moment, she thinks that maybe, the woman has given up. Then she hears a long breath, followed by an even longer sigh.

"Please."

Ariadne's fingers freeze around the grip of Arthur's gun. She forgets how to breathe. The doorknob rattles briefly, and then falls still and silent. She wraps both hands around the gun and lifts it off the dresser with shaking hands.

"Father?"

Another rattle, more violent now. Time slows and air settles thick and heavy over Ariadne's nose and mouth. She raises the gun to chest height and points it at empty space and dust, as if the gesture would leak through to the other side of the door. If she shoots now, the bullet will splinter past the ornate wood and embed itself in Carla Antonelli's body – Arthur had made sure of that.

The door shakes in its frame with the force of Carla's pounding. Where are the guards that Caligiuri had promised them? Ariadne's imagination fills with red, bright and wet like the spray paint on the walls of her old high school. Her finger jerks a millimetre above the trigger and kisses its black, metallic surface. The hammering and splotches of scarlet press her together like a stuffed doll, smaller and smaller. She grits her teeth until her head is throbbing under the pressure.

She can't pull it.

And then from nowhere, a heavy weight falls on her back and the gun flies from her loose grip to clatter uselessly against the door. She scrambles to reach it and is wrenched back hard by her hair, and suddenly, she's back to the first day of kindergarten and the blinding whiteness of a basketball colliding with her skull. She doesn't know what she's doing, can't think, can't feel anything but cold fingers and hands, so she scratches and bites and kicks every surface she can reach and prays to the God she doesn't believe in anymore that some fraction of her flailing limbs will strike Antonelli's livid face.

It's luck that saves her, pure luck that he pushes her back an inch too far. One desperately groping arm makes contact with cold metal and she wildly curls as much of herself as she can around it. It's heavy, heavier than Antonelli, who weighs dozens of times more, and at first, she can do little more than hold it tightly in her hand. The coldness bites against her skin, numbs her fingers and wrist and arm, and freeze brands itself into the contours of her palm. It becomes attached to her, an extra appendage that she can't let go of, and when she sees an opening, it fires.

The world splits open and trickles forth streams of sticky, dark life. Cells and platelets and plasma all force themselves out into the open air to caress skin and carpet and fingers, Ariadne's fingers as she draws back from the body. Through muffled statistic, she hears a strangled, animal sound and is only dimly aware that it's her own voice. She closes her mouth, but the sound continues, echoed by Antonelli and inside her head. On the other side of the door, the world is eerily quiet.

Time stops. The PASIV flashes – red for blood – five minutes and twenty-nine seconds more. She watches Arthur breathing in his sleep so she won't have to see Antonelli struggling for air. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six. Sixty seconds in a minute. Three thousand six hundred seconds in an hour. She should do something, _anything. _Eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds in a day. Stop up the bullet hole, bandage him, CPR. Thirty one million five hundred sixty thousand seconds in a year.

How many seconds in a lifetime?

* * *

Just as quickly as it started, it ends. Arthur's eyes flash open, Eames swears, and the gun slips from Ariadne's hand, tumbling harmlessly to the floor. Suddenly the door is shaking again as Carla Antonelli screams bloody murder.

Murder.

But he's not dead, she reminds herself. Weak, bloody, gravely injured, but not dead. She's certain that once the red flowing from his shoulder is staunched, Antonelli will be, if not fine, then at least alive.

Not dead. Not dead. _Not dead._

Ariadne repeats the silent mantra as Eames scrambles out of his chair and rushes to Antonelli, still swearing. Arthur ignores their bleeding target and grabs his gun from where she let it drop on the stained carpet, sweeps his eyes over the room and opens the door.

Carla Antonelli tumbles into the room, a mess of flaming hair and pounding limbs. Ariadne doesn't see how Arthur does it – a military trick, the infinitesimal fraction of her brain still functioning whispers – but with one jab to the neck, she's an unconscious heap. He catches her as she falls and lays her on her father's bed. He and Eames, still bent over Antonelli, exchange some kind of coded message with their eyes before he turns to her.

"Can you make it back to my room?"

She gives the faintest of nods, unable to speak. He's angry – she can tell from the way his shoulders shake as he spits his words out past clenched teeth. He steps closer and wipes a smear of blood from her face with his thumb.

"Eames and I will take care of this," he murmurs. "Go to my room and stay there. Don't let anyone in. I'll come find you."

She nods again, lips still stitched together. Arthur's hand slips from her face to her hair. He pushes a loose strand back.

"Go."

The hallway is silent, like a layer of death has spread itself over the entire estate. Briefly, Ariadne wonders what she looks like to a servant or a guard that might pass by, dripping blood and shaking so hard that she can barely walk. Arthur's room is not far, just two corridors down. A mere thirty seconds to walk, but she still has to remind herself to place one foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Left. Right.

_Not dead. Not dead. Not dead._


	24. Chapter 24

Thank you for all the reviews. I was going to spend all March Break finishing off the story, but I've been procrastinating like hell, so...yeah.

This is probably going to be the third last chapter. Fourth if I can manage it, because twenty-seven is three cubed, but I think that might be pushing it. I'm having enough problems trying to write two more chapters as it is...

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

_"All truths are easy to understand, once they are discovered. The point is to discover them."  
-Galileo Galilei_

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Arthur's room is painfully clean. The bed is neatly made, covers spread without a single wrinkle in place, pillows plumped and carefully propped up against the headboard. The dresser beside his bed is spotless – no chocolate wrappers or stained coffee cups here, not even a cell phone charger left dangling from the nearby socket. The only sign of his presence at all is the leather briefcase on the chair next to the bathroom door and the clothes slung over its back. There is no red, no wetness congealing on its surface, just dully gleaming brown silk and pinstripes that exude faint trails of the smell of the smooth skin tracing his neck. It reflects him, perfection personified, orderly, methodical, and deadly efficient.

She needs water.

The bathroom is pure, pure white. Her handprint stands out in sharp relief, burnished crimson against brilliant, silvery, stainless steel. For a moment, Ariadne stands mutely in front of the sink, steadily dripping blood into a pool on the gleaming, willow-patterned tiles. Red on white, like the stripes on the candy canes that used to flow over the top of her stocking and clatter softly onto her bed on Christmas morning. The bright tiles and polished metal reflect her, dirty and polluted, onto the towels and walls and ceiling. White and red intermix. They do not produce pink, just sharp lines where one becomes the other, no transition state, immiscible.

She does not look into the bevelled mirror.

The tap turns smoothly at her lightest touch, a glaring mockery of the rusty mechanics in what used to be her dormitory. Water, fresh, cold, blessed water, comes pouring out and deluges her hands and wrists with icy shock. She scrubs furiously at her skin, at the deep red Celtic knots patterning its surface. The water scratches her raw and numb, sting down to her skeleton like salt on an open wound, but there can be no salt in the pipes, so why does it hurt and hurt and hurt?

The door clicks open behind her.

"Ariadne?"

Arthur's voice is quiet, barely discernible above the rushing torrent of water. She scrubs harder.

"Ariadne, stop. It's not going to help."

She pretends not to hear. Can't he see what she's doing?

"Ariadne!"

He seizes hold of both her wrists and wrenches her around to face him. There are still faint traces of anger around the corners of his mouth. She drips water and soap suds all over his clean shirt, but he either doesn't notice or doesn't care, or maybe it is just the numbness in her own body that is seeping through into his, carried by the connection of skin against skin. Arthur's hands release hers and slide up her arm, past the curves of her shoulder to cup her neck and face. One thumb traces the outline of her cheek.

"Please. Don't."

Two involuntary words force their way past Ariadne's sealed lips.

"Why not?"

Soft warmth envelopes her, a warmth that smells of pine and mint, and Ariadne finds herself looking into the blankness of Arthur's chest without any clear idea of how she got there. She desperately wants to cry, _needs _to cry, and knows that he is probably expecting her to cry because that's the way they do it in the novels. Part one is the life and death struggle, followed by the tears and choked confessions, and then finally, the proclamations s of love and the happily ever after. If she was a real heroine, the tears would tumble freely, a saline droplet for every drip of sticky blood that she can still feel on her hands. She begs for them to come and engulf her in their waves, yet still the only thing prickling her eyes is the starchy fabric of Arthur's shirt.

Somewhere, down deep at the bottom of her soul, in the hidden places of a cobwebby attic with no skylights, there must be a well of tears, impatient to be dug up and freed.

She digs.

Digs.

_Digs._

She digs and finds only a kind of quiet calm, ruthless in its mere existence. Another strike against her. Soon, they will tip the balance and send her tumbling from her ink and paper imaginarium into harsh sun and night. There can be no storybook ending without all the pages in between, depicting the heroic fights and loves and goddamn _tears_.

Arthur, too, is against her, holding her without any of the murmured sweet nothings of comfort that might make the silence more bearable. Ariadne is dimly aware that she could easily let herself crumble into dust as long as he's there, bonding her to herself. She could liquefy in his arms, become water that flows and wraps itself into a cocoon around him, then builds into a tidal wave that leaves them very much alone; and for the briefest of moments, she would be safe.

But she has forgotten how. She has forgotten everything except the hot, tongue lolling red staining her palms and fingers and the edges of her wrists with unseen splotches of hurt.

Arthur breaks the stillness first, encouraged, or perhaps worried, by the fact that his shirt has remained curiously dry.

"Ariadne…Don't blame yourself."

She is slow and stupid, an automaton in need of oiling. Words thrust themselves into her mouth and weigh heavy on her tongue with the same taste as a gluey mass of one too many bites of birthday cake. She gags.

"I sh-"

She is a coward too. The short syllable refuses to come out. She swallows and tries again without any hope left in her drained reservoir, too afraid to speak the word.

Arthur pulls back slightly to look at her. "He'll be alright," he assures. Under her hands, his heart skips a beat.

"You're lying."

He neither admits nor denies the fact, but his hold on her tightens. Ariadne lets him, wanting the answer but not the truth. All the lofty morals and aspirations and curiosity that nourished and sustained her for twenty-four years have been scrambled and smashed together through an isochronous cyclotron until relativity has left them as recognizable as sewage sludge. This is not her standing firm and shaking, reflected back into herself, smaller and smaller into infinity. This is not her, limp and tired in familiarly strange arms. This is a shell, a facsimile, an imitation-

So what is she?

What is she besides _this,_ this broken shell of what used to be an Ariadne, this transparent facsimile that hides jagged shards and edges, this crude imitation of a tough, unbreakable thief? She has been playing at Architect of the Universe like a little child, making believe that she can control everything and anything, but when the starbursts fade, the only thing that will remain beyond _this,_ beyond her, beyond these fixed moments in time, is the truths that she has found and left behind.

And in that moment of clarity, all the tears that would not come before break free from the dam of her consciousness. They rain down in drops and rivers, and she cries, and for what, she doesn't know, but the sobs tear at her throat anyway.

The torrential downpour floods her beyond oblivion into some clean hollow space within, where she can look down on her body and wonder where she left herself. Vaguely, she is aware of Arthur leading her gently back into his room and pulling her down into a sitting position. The feel of soft, downy material between the whorls and loops and arches of her fingers tell her that she must be on the bed. There is the scent of pine in her nose and the touch of cool skin against her face and through the clearing haze of mist she sees Arthur kneeling on the floor in front of her. The whole scenario is so amazingly absurd that she almost laughs, because really, what does any of it mean?

She is nothing and he is nothing and they are all just micro bursts of life floating in nothing.

Her throat is less dry now, lubricated by her fading tears. Still, it is easier to ask when she's not looking, because blindness will cure her muteness. Ariadne closes her eyes and the heavy weight of dry, sawdust cake lessens. The question slips out, all wrong.

"Are you angry at me?"

She hears Arthur's sharp intake of breath and can almost imagine his jaw tightening and his back tensing ramrod straight. His fingers twitch gently against her skin.

"I'm not angry at you."

Quiet heart beats turn into soft breaths into light drops of syntax.

"I'm angry at myself," he says quietly. No emotional outbursts, no accompanying theatrics, just a simple statement. He could be talking about the weather, except that his heart pounds so furiously it drives the blood rushing from Ariadne's fingertips, leaving them numb and white.

"I was stupid," Arthur continues in the same near monotonous tone. "I shouldn't have left you in there on your own. I know Antonelli, I should have expected-"

"You couldn't have," Ariadne interjects, and she's surprised by how simple it is to shape the sounds. Funny how much easier it was to talk about someone else's guilt. How wonderful, to waltz around the truth in circles of insignificant questions and answers when one is all they need.

She isn't nearly brave enough to ask.

"I should have known enough to at least leave someone with you," says Arthur. Beneath the plain calm, he sounds determined to punish himself for a crime that never existed. "Even if it was just one of Caligiuri's bodyguards."

"You can't always keep me safe," Ariadne begins, but stops almost immediately. Arthur's heart beats, a sudden, rough, syncopated rhythm under her skin. They have approached the other forbidden question, the one that they have been dancing around for days and weeks now. Her throat dries, her words becoming grains of desert sand.

She could dance with him forever.

"I wish I could," he whispers without looking at her, and Ariadne wonders if he can see the reels of thought flickering across her mind. Can he hear all of her unuttered questions and protests as clearly as she can hear them? But if he could, he would have long ago given her the answers that would wipe the blood clean from her hands. As for her, she will never be clean. Not really. She will carry the invisible, microscopic marks of red on her skin and in her blood for the rest of her life, no matter what the answer is. Still, she needs to know. The words are cracked and hoarse and barely discernible, even in the absolute stillness surrounding them, a stillness that frightens her to no end because it means inaction, inertia, heaviness, death.

She does not want the truth, but she desperately needs it.

"What happened?"

Arthur's eyes snap back. He searches her face, still glistening, for something she knows she doesn't have. She has nothing; she _is _nothing, just an emptiness waiting to be filled with _something._

He gives up the search. His fingers fall to her hands, where they slide smoothly into the gaps between her own. It strikes Ariadne for the first time that Arthur needs this – this conduction of muted sparks across connected skin – as much as she does.

"We went in like we planned," Arthur murmurs, his lips barely moving. He's talking to their joined hands, and she has to bend over to hear him. "It was all fine at first. We got to Antonelli's office and Eames went in as Carla while I set the charges on the other side of the building. I don't know what happened between them. I think it went well, though. When the charges went off, Antonelli went running to his private safe room and Carla – Eames – was still with him. I was watching them from the next room. He was frantic at first, wrenching documents out of the safe, checking that everything was still there. And then-"

He stops. His gaze flickers back to Ariadne's face and she forces herself to stay still. She knows what's coming next.

"Eames said something," he continues after a moment. "I didn't catch it, but it must have been something wrong, because Antonelli just stopped everything and stared at him. He knew."

She does not have to ask him what.

"His subconscious came at us then, and in the middle of everything, he shot himself and-"

"Woke up."

Arthur nods wordlessly and traces senseless patterns over the small hollow between her thumb and index finger. She barely feels it, yet at the same time, she is acutely aware of the pressure of his hands heating her skin with its warmth. His soft breathing wards off the stillness threatening to suffocate her in its muffling hold. She could get used to this comforting half-silence.

But she needs the truth.

"Will he…"

She clears her throat.

"Will Antonelli…"

"I don't know."

Ariadne's heart stops.

When the organ starts again, the familiar _lubb-dubb _indicating opening and closing valves and blood flowing between atria and ventricles is a deafening sound. It shames her, reminds her that while oxygen and glucose rush from her heart to her brain, someone else is lying in limbo, nearly dead but still struggling to stay afloat. It reminds her too, that it could have been her drowning, that it could very well still be her sinking into that ocean. She bites her lip until sweet blood flows and mixes with the salty bile at the back of her mouth.

"If he dies, it won't be because of you."

"I shot him, Arthur," she says bitterly. Somehow, the truth is easier to take now that it's out in the open. It has become a cold, hard fact, simple to grasp hold of. She was always good with facts, with math and science and history.

"You missed his vital organs," Arthur replies. His voice is harsh, almost cruel, like he wishes she _had_ killed their target. "Not by much, but you did. And he hasn't lost enough blood to die from the wound. If Antonelli dies, it will be his own fault."

Her heart quickens, and her breathing hitches, unused to the irregularity.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember when we met Jean in Frechette`s subconscious, and he told us how his parents died?" he asks slowly. When she nods, his grip on her hand tightens.

"That's why Antonelli's been after him all this time. He wants to know if he still remembers and if he knows the truth. Because that was him, Ariadne. He killed Michel Frechette's parents."


	25. Chapter 25

Hey, I think I might actually have found a way to stretch this out to three cubed chapters...OCD is going to kill me one day. Anyway, heaps of thanks for all the reviews and for putting up with my sporadic updates. I promise, it's almost done.

This chapter feels like filler, but it isn't (or at least, I didn't consciously mean for it to happen) but, once again, I think it might be OCD dragging it out...

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Antonelli…It was him? He sent those men to kill Frechette's parents?

"Yes."

Ariadne closes her eyes, uncertain of how much more she can take before her brain simply shuts down from over taxation. Small details and nuances bother her. Did he know, then, that his daughter would grow up to marry the boy he'd orphaned? Did he regret it? She closes her eyes, head spinning dangerously off axis, It makes her wonder if her life will always be like this now, a trackless roller coaster of ups and downs threatening to eject her from her seat at any second without so much as a warning bell. What happened to seatbelts, to parachutes, to blissful red STOP buttons nestled underneath safety glass?

It doesn't really matter, though, because she could never press it. She might flip open the clear cover and trace the contours of the button with a curious finger. She might even place her palm flat against it to feel its edges against the lines of her skin; lines, she's heard, where entire lives are written before they are ever lived. It would be something, she muses, to hold that power in her hands. A charge detonator, a kind of personal kick to topple her from the pedestal of reality into whatever it is that lies below.

But she would never press it.

From a long way away, she hears her own voice.

"What happens now?"

Arthur's fingers cease their aimless sketching across her skin. "Eames is with Antonelli and his daughter – they need to be sedated. He'll find us when he's done and we'll go tell Caligiuri what happened."

"And then?"

He swallows, hard, and his hands shake ever so slightly in hers. When he sees her watching the resonant oscillation of their linked fingers, he withdraws them wordlessly. With a jerky, abrupt motion that jars against his calm demeanour, Arthur stands up. He runs a hand through his hair, fidgets with his tie, and finally shoves both hands out of sight in his pockets. Ariadne clasps her own hands together on her knees, hoping to trap the warmth and feel of his fingers between her cupped palms, but it's like catching at fistfuls of dew – his touch rolls off her skin in little drops that leave behind a cool trail of tiny perforations. So instead, she studies his profile with more attention than she's ever devoted to anything in her life. The fine, barely visible lines at the corners of his mouth. The slightly deeper ones framing his eyes. The straight slope of his shoulders. The skin along his jaw that remains smooth even after two sleepless nights. Every little thing that makes him who he is; Arthur, scarred smooth, imperfect in his very perfection. She memorizes all these details that she's always known but never catalogued and etches them into the skin inside her eyelids, so that when she closes her eyes, he will be there. Faintly, she remembers a story her grandmother used to tell her, about the most beautiful heart in the world. She used to laugh it off as a silly fairy tale, but now all she can think about is what her own heart looks like. How many pieces has he already taken and replaced with his own? How many more until she loses herself entirely and becomes an Ariadnian body with a very much Arthurian heart?

The carpet releases faint clouds of dust to accompany the muffled thuds of Arthur's shoes when he walks to the other end of the room. His back is turned to her, but she can clearly see his right hand moving in his pocket and she knows, without a doubt, what he's fidgeting with. Small, red and platonic, with twenty-one tiny dots of white on its sides that always land four up. He never plays with his totem lightly the way she does, grasping it for comfort even in the midst of a dream. She supposes that it has to do with experience, and that in time, she too, will learn to forgo the soothing reassurance of metal curves and slits beneath her fingers. Or maybe it is just the way that they are destined to be, prewritten in the stars that she used to believe were only faded snapshots of balls of glowing hydrogen, waiting to become so much more. .

"He's going to die."

It is neither question nor answer, but a fact that they both know is adamantly true. Arthur turns around.

"I don't know," he murmurs to a point on the wall behind her, just above her head. "What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me the truth," she replies.

Arthur's expression does not so much morph as crumble from smooth professionalism into something Ariadne has never seen on him before. His eyes are matte dark even in the flickering shadows of the ceiling light, sunk into the pale purple semicircles above his sharp cheekbones. The lines of his face are slack. He looks drained, like a faded, tie-dyed shirt that has been worn and washed one too many times.

"The truth? The truth is that it doesn't matter whether Antonelli dies or is elected President. It isn't any of our business."

Her heart skips a beat at the unexpected bluntness of his voice. "I thought he was our client-"

"Which is exactly why this doesn't concern us," Arthur breaks in. In a few swift strides, he crosses back to her side of the room in front of the bed, a tinge of his former sharpness visible through the lethargy. "The outcome of the average extraction is roughly fifty-fifty, sixty-forty if you're good at it. When I worked with Cobb, we had an eighty percent chance of success on the first try."

He continues to rattle off statistics and probabilities that mean nothing to her beyond their numerical value.

She listens to hear his voice.

"The point is," he finishes, "no matter how the job ends, it's over. The things that happen afterwards, the implications of success or failure, have nothing to do with us."

He pauses for breath and kneels back down in front of her. Almost unconsciously, Ariadne unclasps her fingers and Arthur automatically moves to fill in the empty space between them with his own. Beneath the hummingbird flutter of his pulse, his hands are still shaking. When she looks at him questioningly, he presses his lips, light as a snowflake, to the back of her knuckles. She blanches.

An early frost will kill everything in its path.

"The first man I stole from lost the company he'd been building for thirty-seven years," he tells her. "His five year old grandson found him hanging from his bedroom balcony two months later. When I read it in the paper, I was ready to hang myself."

Ariadne counts unsteady pulse beats under his skin in time with her own. "What stopped you?"

"Cowardice. Self-preservation." He exhales slowly. "The thing is, it never gets any easier. The guilt is always going to be there, after every job. You just have to numb yourself to it and move on to the next job as quickly as you can. If you give yourself too much time to dwell on it, you'll go mad."

She cannot help the doubt that seeps into her voice. "Just pick up and move on?"

Arthur cracks the smallest of fainthearted smiles. "It does sound ridiculous when you put it like that." His expression turns serious once more. "This whole fiasco with Antonelli is the easiest it will ever be. Not all our targets deserve what they get and most of our clients are more concerned with business than morality."

"And we just let it happen."

He sighs. "Strictly speaking, what we do isn't exactly legal but as long as we keep to ourselves, most law enforcers will turn a blind eye to it. There is no way to prove what happens in a dream, so they ignore us for the most part. But if we involve ourselves in the physical aftermaths of extractions, it becomes much easier to build a case against us, and our clients know that. That's their ace."

"So we turn a blind eye too?" Ariadne asks. She cannot explain why any of it matters – after all, she knows with a certainty that Antonelli deserves to die. Still, her mouth fills with bitter disgust that pours out in her words, words of contempt for Arthur, for herself, for everything they are and ever have been.

"These corporate heads – they'll do whatever they want and we'll play dumb to save our own skins." Her hands are trembling violently, but when she tries to withdraw them from Arthur's grasp, he only tightens his hold.

"It's not so entirely amoral. We can turn down whatever jobs we want, but there are only so many we can refuse before people stop asking altogether. Everyone has to make a living somehow."

"Not like this, they don't."

Arthur closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. "Ariadne, if a corporate criminal commissioned you to build him a new headquarters for his company with absolutely no physical or monetary constraints, would you do it?"

"Of course I-"

The half-finished sentence dangles gingerly between them, revealing more in its silence than a myriad of sophisticated vocabulary. Ariadne forces herself to look Arthur in the eye despite the highly complicated gymnastics her stomach performs at the knowing look he gives her. They might have remained there, silent and immobile, for several hours if not for the sharp sound of knuckles rapping against the door. Arthur quickly lets go of her hands.

"Eames," he mutters, but Ariadne notices the assurance does not stop him checking the safety on his gun before he wrenches the door open. When Eames does come in, rumpled and splattered with blood, his hand moves fluidly from gun to pocket.

"They're out," Eames announces flatly before either Ariadne or Arthur can ask. "We should go see Caligiuri now," he continues in the same constrained manner. "The sooner we get out of here, the better."

"Have you seen him yet?"

Eames' eye flicker briefly to Arthur, accompanied by a tiny nod.

"And?"

"He's not happy that we marked them, so we'd better have a damn good story. His words, not mine."

"What are we going to tell him?"

Arthur rolls down the sleeves of his shirt and straightens his tie. "Exactly what he wants."

* * *

Caligiuri's expression throughout Eames' narration is a perfectly carved mask of indifference. If not for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes and the occasional flicker of his eyes, Ariadne would swear it was a mannequin sitting behind the Frenchman's highly polished, cherry wood desk. For a long time after the forger falls into silence, he remains quiet and immobile. She likes to imagine he is looking for a fault in their story – some hairline crack that will succumb under his minute scrutiny and expose Eames' words as nothing more than a clever counterfeit. The truth, though, is that despite his impenetrable façade of detached apathy, Caligiuri's eyes look like he is ready to throw up. He leans both elbows on his desk and watches them from above the tips of his steepled fingers. Ariadne tries to return the gaze as equally as she can, but has to abruptly tear her eyes away. The simple blankness of Caligiuri's face, the smooth skin unmarked by emotion, makes her feel grossly indecent for looking at something so clearly private.

"Am I to understand," he asks eventually, his voice clipped and even, "that Riccardo Antonelli is to blame for the death of my godson's family?"

"You won't find any evidence of it," Arthur replies immediately. "Not enough to have him charged or sentenced. Everyone that knew about it is either dead or in no condition to testify."

Caligiuri ignores him, his attention focused on Eames, the only one to actually see the proof of Antonelli's guilt.

"You're certain that he is responsible?" he repeats, a hint of suspicion tinged with malice in his voice.

Eames, ever the cool performer, holds out both his hands in a clear gesture of truce that, nevertheless, recalls to Ariadne's mind late nights spent playing poker at the warehouse. He tilts his chair back on two legs. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the gravity of the situation, she can't help but notice the fractional twitch of Arthur's foot towards the other man's chair. Eames slowly lowers his chair back to the ground.

"I'm positive," he answers, looking Caligiuri straight in the eye.

Rather than relaxing as she had expected, their client's body stiffens. Ariadne cannot look at his face, so she watches his fingers instead. They vibrate visibly from the force of being pressed tightly together, reminding her of Arthur's hands shaking ever so slightly in hers, proof of their uncertainty. She looks down at her hands resting small and forlorn in her lap and bites her lip. She can never look at them without wishing she could be just a tiny bit less useless to beside Eames and Arthur. Back in the warehouse, her designs had been the crux of all their plans, and even in their dreams, she had been, if not vital, then at least indispensable. Here, in the glare of the real world, amidst all the business and mechanics of extraction, she gets the distinct feeling that her presence is worth little more to her team than an additional body to back them up in the case of a dispute.

Caligiuri draws in a sudden, deep breath, and steadies his fingers. Although she can't see him, there's a volatile aura around the Frenchman, and it grates harshly against every intuitive sense in her body. Her fingers curl reflexively and dig deep groves into her palms. Caligiuri stands up abruptly and crosses to stand on their side of the desk.

"I don't believe in the death penalty," he says unexpectedly, as if it's the most natural progression of thought in the world. Surprised, Ariadne looks up and feels her stomach turn several times, each one more unpleasant than the last, at the look on his face.

"There isn't enough proof to charge-"

He silences Eames with a wave of his hand. "I am not a deaf man, Mr. Eames. I heard your colleague the first time. What I mean is that I have no intention of letting Antonelli get away quite so easily."

He crosses his arms and studies them carefully for several long minutes before speaking again.

"What can you tell me about limbo?"

Ariadne does not so much hear as feel Arthur's sharp intake of air. He stares at Caligiuri as if he has never seen anything quite like him.

"It's unconstructed dream space," he replies cautiously. "There's nothing down there. Once you're in it, it's almost impossible to wake up, and even if you do, there's no guarantee your mind will still be able to function at all."

"Say I wanted to get to limbo. How would I do it?"

Arthur rubs his temple, clearly uncomfortable with divulging trade secrets to a client. "If you're sedated enough, when you die in the dream, you'll drop into limbo."

"And how much would it cost to have you send Antonelli and his daughter there?"

Beside her, Arthur stiffens. "That's not part of our job."

Caligiuri smiles. "Oh, I wasn't asking you. You and Mr. Eames have proved yourself quite incapable of handling Antonelli's subconscious. I was thinking of your architect."

"_No_."

Arthur is halfway out of his seat before Ariadne can reach out a hand to force him back down. He sinks into his chair, shaking with thinly veiled anger, and brushes off her hand.

"This wasn't in our deal-"

"Neither was Antonelli bleeding over my carpet and his daughter screaming murder," Caligiuri snaps, abandoning his mask of cool politeness. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Surely you've learned that much from your job."

Eames leans forward, trying to salvage the meeting. "The risk of physical harm comes with every extraction, Mr. Caligiuri, and you chose to take it."

"But I'm not the one they saw, am I? I'm not the one they're going to go after. Think about that, and let my secretary know when you're willing to be more reasonable. Take your time. It should only be another hour before Antonelli wakes up."

He nods briefly at them, once, and is already opening the door when Ariadne finally finds her voice.

"I'll do it."

She's on her feet without any remembrance of standing up. Someone – Arthur – touches her hand and she returns the light brush but does not sit down. Her words ring loudly in the heavy air and she has to shake her head slightly to get rid of their persistent buzzing in her ear.

Caligiuri stops with one hand on the doorknob. "Excellent. When-"

"Now."

"Ariadne, this isn't a game-"

"I know that, Arthur" she replies patiently. "But we've already established that you can't protect me forever, so where else does that leave me?"

Arthur opens his mouth to further argue the point, but this time, it's Eames who holds him back.

"Let it go. It's her choice."

Caligiuri makes a point of studying the ornate clock hanging on the wall behind his desk. "You have forty-nine minutes and counting," he informs them. "You know, if I were you, I would get the job done first and argue later, before Antonelli wakes up and damages the architect-"

"The architect's name is Ariadne," Arthur spits out from between clenched teeth.

Caligiuri acknowledges this with a nod. "My apologies, Mademoiselle Ariadne." He holds the door open for her with mock gallantry. "If you'll follow me, my secretary has already set up all of the necessary equipment. You're welcome to come too," he adds, turning to Eames and Arthur, who is no longer shaking but still wearing a very ugly look. She gets the idea that, if not for the adamant self-control he's amassed over the years, he might easily knock out their client, to hell with the consequences. The thought is oddly comforting, in the same way that a large dose of traffic light-red Seconal might soothe a chronic insomniac. It is by no means a cure or even a bandage, and in all likelihood, will do nothing to help. When she looks at Arthur again, really looks him in the eye this time, he jerks his head fractionally and she takes it to be a nod, forced, resigned, and above all else, helpless. Still, it's the consent that she'd hoped for and it relives her just a little.

Somewhere in her mind, there's an inkling that the difference between what she wants and what she needs isn't all that defined.


	26. Chapter 26

I've been looking forward to posting this chapter since I started this story...finally I can use the word penultimate! It's such a powerful, socerous word. Not like final or last, which are just limp and noodle-y.

Anyway, thank you for all the lovely reviews. You are awesome.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka  
**___A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

When Caligiuri opens the door, Ariadne steels herself for the worst: catheters, oxygen masks, heart monitors, the whole glamorous package, supplemented with a fair share of dried blood. Her contingency plans are all for worst case scenarios from textbook thrillers, so she's not at all prepared for the cloud of warm white that greets her.

Every last inch of the room is tiled, painted or draped in varying shades of white and faintly tinged pastel hues. Two medical gurneys lie parallel in the middle of the room. Antonelli – shoulder neatly bandaged – and Carla lie flat on their backs, dead to the world except for the liquid dripping steadily through the IVs suspended from the ceiling. When they enter, a middle-aged man in a lab coat embossed with Caligiuri's company logo is busy attaching both IV drips to a PASIV on a trolley at the foot of the gurneys. A strict looking armchair stands empty beside it.

"My secretary and laboratory supervisor," Caligiuri introduces with a careless gesture at the man, who nods tersely before returning to the jumble of tubes surrounding him. "This is just a small lab," he continues. "Very basic equipment but I think it's more than adequate for the job at hand, no?" He steps back, allowing Ariadne Arthur and Eames to move further into the room.

Arthur, sufficiently recovered from his former agitation, surveys the room with a critical eye. Ariadne knows without asking that he's looking for some flaw in the room that would make it impossible for her to complete the job. She supposes that she should feel gratitude for his obvious concern for her safety, but she can't help thinking that, after having been subjected to dreaming in the back of a tumbling van, this feels almost too safe.

"It's fine," Arthur admits reluctantly after a swift scan of the room. He checks his watch – more, Ariadne suspects, for the sake of having something to do than an actual need for the time. "If we start now, we should have this done in less than ten minutes. Then we can go our separate ways."

"Excellent." Caligiuri beckons to his secretary, who finishes connecting the last length of tubing before leaving through a door at the other end of the room that Ariadne had not noticed earlier. Caligiuri moves to the other side of the room himself and into a small, glass enclosure, where Ariadne assumes he can watch their every move without having to be in any danger himself. The expectant expression reminds her eerily of preschoolers at the circus. Nauseated, she hurries to join Arthur and Eames, already busy beside the gurneys.

"It's obvious that he doesn't make much use of his millions," Eames mutters darkly, tugging the PASIV open with a loud scraping noise that bounces off the laboratory's soundproof walls. "This has got to be the most ancient model I've ever seen and that includes all that second-hand junk we stole from Miles."

Arthur makes a noise at the back of his throat that could either be assent or a request to shut up. Although she's fully aware that this is only Eames' way of calming her down, Ariadne still feels a tug of worry.

"What happens with old models?" she asks tentatively.

"The dreams will be lower quality. Kind of like a cathode ray tube compared to an LED. No spontaneous trips to limbo, unfortunately."

She returns his brief grin with a dimmer one of her own. "Unfortunately."

Arthur stops fidgeting with the interconnecting tubes and holds the needle out to her. "Are you sure you still want to do this?"

Ariadne stares at the bright glint of the needlepoint, which seems much sharper and more lethal than she remembers. It figures. With the way her luck has been running lately, it would probably pierce right through Antonelli's drugged stupor and wake him up fully equipped with flailing gun and theatrics. She chews her suddenly dry lips.

"I think so."

His hand on the needle jerks ever so slightly. She's almost certain that he's going to take her words as a way out of all this, but at the last minute, he passes it to her, albeit with clear reluctance. Ariadne slides the needle under her own skin and tries to arrange her body more comfortably in the rigid armchair. She catches Arthur's eye as Eames' finger hovers over the PASIV's spongy yellow centre. Wanting to reassure him that everything will be alright, as he's done so many times for her, but with the seconds ticking down and her senses still a little numbed, she can do little more than offer him a wavering smile.

"_Three-_"

"See you when I wake up."

"_Two-"_

Arthur slides his fingers between hers. "I'll be waiting."

"_One."_

* * *

"Miss? Excuse me, miss, are you ready to order?"

Ariadne blinks up at the black and white waiter – her subconscious – standing patiently at her elbow, pen posed over writing pad, then back down at the glossy menu in front of her. Under the glare of the Mediterranean sun, the fancy font hidden behind smooth laminate is only visible if she squints.

"Um…An iced coffee."

Her waiter scribbles down the corresponding number. "Anything to eat with that?"

A particularly blinding ray of light from over her shoulder glares off her menu. She cranes her head around automatically and almost immediately twists back around, heart racing. The waiter taps a foot impatiently.

"No thanks, that's all."

Displeased, her waiter huffs and puffs her way to the next table. Ariadne takes the opportunity to slide further down in her chair and shake her hair out until her entire left profile is nothing but a mass of brown curls. For good measure, she pulls a textbook out of her backpack –inadvertently brushing her fingers against the barrel of Arthur's gun – and props it up against the sugar bowl. From slightly behind her, she hears the waiter's reedy voice.

"Are you ready to order?"

A cough. "An espresso and two éclairs. Carla?"

"Just a cappuccino, thanks."

After the waiter leaves, there's a rustle of elastic winding over hair – bright red – followed by the kind of sigh that signals the beginning of a well used lecture.

"Papa, you know what the doctor said about your blood sugar. One éclair is more than enough for you."

"They're for us to share, one each. That's not going against the doctor's orders, so don't bother going to report me."

"You know I hate éclairs."

Antonelli's chuckle is quiet and gravelly, reminiscent of a heavy smoker. "It slipped my mind. Must be the dementia flaring up again."

Ariadne chances a quick glance at the pair on her left. Carla, glamorous even in a simple flowered summer dress accessorised with two deep slashes between her eyes to match the frown on her lips, is hunched over the table, hands clasped together. Her father, on the other hand, stretches across his chair in a lazy yet dignified loll, one arm slung over the back of his chair, the other lying on the clean tablecloth. His shoulder, Ariadne notices, is clean and whole. As she watches, Carla reaches one hand across the table to touch her father's.

"Don't talk like that. I'm sure we'll find something."

Antonelli laughs again, but this time there is no light humour, just bitterness. "Your optimism never fails to amaze me, Carla, but even you can't believe that there's anything left to find. I own the pharmaceutical industry. If there was anything, I would be the first to know."

"Medicine isn't the answer to everything. There's always therapy-"

"I don't believe in all that psychology nonsense. If I want to lie on a leather couch all day, I'll do it free of charge in the comfort of my own home."

"You believe in extraction," Carla accuses. Ariadne stops flipping pages in her book and strains to hear above the café's crowded din.

"That's science," Antonelli replies. "Somnacin – we sell that. Not legally, of course, but the best business usually lies on that side. There are algorithms for its use, measurements and calculations we can use."

"Michel says-"

Antonelli holds up a hand to silence his daughter. "What have I said about mentioning his name?"

Carla grinds her teeth together quite audibly. "You're being childish, Papa. What are you going to do when I marry him?"

"I'm going to be the model father-in-law," Antonelli replies pleasantly. "But until then, he's just another one of my daughter's many male acquaintances, and I'll abuse him however I want to."

At this point, Ariadne's waiter reappears with her coffee. She dumps the frosted glass unceremoniously on the table and glides over to Carla and Antonelli. They thank her quietly before returning to their conversation.

"You don't trust him," Carla says bluntly.

Her father takes a sip of his drink. "I didn't get to where I am today by trusting people."

"This isn't one of your business partners. This is my fiancé you're talking about."

"All the less reason to trust him." Antonelli surveys the plate of éclairs thoughtfully. "You know, these are so small that I don't think they'll affect my blood sugar at all. Are you sure don't want one?"

Carla ignores his question. "Why won't you tell me the reason you set those extractors on him?"

Antonelli pokes one of the éclairs with a tiny dessert fork. Cream, white and airy, spills and oozes from its chocolaty heart, reminding Ariadne of why she's here. She presses her leg against the front pocket of her bag to feel the contours of the weapon hidden there.

"I did tell you," Antonelli mumbles from around a mouthful of éclair.

Carla flushes a deep, angry pink. "I don't want some story about keeping me safe that a seven year old could see through. I want the truth."

"That is the truth. I wanted to make sure he would take good care of you once I'm gone."

"Stop saying that!"

A deadly silence falls over the café, the sidewalk and the square on the other side of the street. The projections, every one of them, turn to stare at Carla. Ariadne isn't sure if it's her subconscious sensing hostility or her conscious mind finally linking the pieces together, but it's of no importance because Antonelli is staring at her with a look of dawning comprehension.

And he's dying.

Carla is on her feet, shaking, both hands curled into fists, shouting obscenities, one step away from flying at her. Only Antonelli's restraining grasp keeps her back.

And she's in love. So desperately in love.

"You!"

And Ariadne is so sick she can barely see straight, but still she pulls the gun out of her bag and points it, wavering, at the air between father and daughter. Antonelli stands up and steps around the table with his eyes fixed on her, only her, coming ever closer until she can see that his eyes are exactly the same as his daughter's.

"Are you going to shoot me again?" he spits in her face.

She backs away on unsteady feet and stumbles against her chair. He sneers at her retreat.

"You don't have the guts. You think I couldn't see the first time? You could have killed me then and saved yourself all this hassle. But you're a coward."

Ariadne tightens her grip around the smooth metal and steadies her aim as best as she can. It's a point blank shot to his heart. If she fires now, everything will be over and she can go back, back to reality and to Arthur. "You don't know me."

"But I do know you. Look around you. Look at the projections. _Your_ projections because they certainly aren't mine. Look at their faces. Do they look like the subconscious of someone who would kill a helpless old man?"

Despite her best efforts, she can't help but to listen and to look. He's right. Her own projections are motionless, useless, her doom and her salvation. Her arms shake. From exhaustion, she tells herself, but the gleam in Antonelli's eyes says otherwise. He shakes back his sleeve and makes a big show of checking the gold watch strapped to his wrist.

"How much time do you have left? Fifty minutes? You'd better make up your mind soon."

"Get back, or I swear I'll shoot."

Antonelli almost smiles. "Well then, you'd be doing us all a favour, wouldn't you? I have to admit, I'm getting tired of all this waiting around. I suppose it's just my bad luck that Caligiuri didn't send someone more experienced. I would have preferred your friend, Arthur – his efficiency is astonishing. He would have made me an excellent secretary."

Sheer confusion drops Ariadne's aim an inch. She forces it back up, but not before Antonelli notices it.

"Have I stunned you?" he taunts. "My apologies."

"What are you talking about? How do you know about Caligiuri?" Ariadne straightens her aim and voice, but it's clear that he's not fooled by her act. He chuckles and shakes his head.

"Trade secret.

Just behind him, Carla moves forward.

"Papa-"

Antonelli stops his daughter midsentence. "Carla, stay out of this," he warns, and for the first time, there is more than contempt in his voice. There is thick, animal fear.

His daughter.

His Carla.

His everything.

It takes Ariadne only a fraction of a second to switch her aim from father to daughter, but the transformation that the former undergoes speaks silent words that would take her years to describe, and even longer to forget. Pain, anger, terror, love. Still, she keeps the gun trained above Carla's heart.

"Tell me."

Antonelli holds up both hands, palms outward, the universal sign for a momentary truce. "Carla has nothing to do with this. It was all my doing."

"So tell me about it," Ariadne replies, doing her best to emulate a mixture of Arthur's serious confidence and Eames' nonchalance. It comes out rather flat, but she knows as certainly as the sun rises in the east that in this bubble of time, Antonelli is beyond caring for little details in her voice. His daughter is his noose and her lifeline. She would be a fool not to grab it and cling on with everything she has, or so she tells herself when Antonelli tries to step in front of his daughter. But before Ariadne can push him back or adjust her aim, Carla steps nimbly around her father and back into the line of fire. Her simple, almost effortless step looks far braver than Ariadne has ever felt.

"Tell her Papa. Tell me why I'm here."

"Carla-"

"Please." It's a plea now, more urgent than Ariadne can muster in all her desperation. Somehow, without any of them even realizing it, everything has shifted. Old cracks have healed and new ones have broken in the short space of seconds so that nothing is recognizable anymore. And this impasse that they've reached, this dream of the real world, has become so much more than the means to an end.

"Tell me the truth about Michel."

Antonelli's throat bobs visibly as he swallows. "You don't need to hear it," he starts. His voice, already gravelly to begin with, cracks static over the words. Ariadne takes a slow step closer to Carla and his flinch perfectly matches her own. She could kill them both now and wait safely for her hour to run out or she could keep prying at lies and secrets that mean nothing to her beyond fulfilling her morbid need to _know_.

She grits her teeth together. What a laughable set of choices. "Tell me everything or I'll tell her the truth about the Frechette job."

Antonelli pales chalk white and colours in rapid succession. "You don't have any idea what you're talking about," he snaps angrily at both and neither women.

"Then you tell me, Papa," Carla says quietly.

For a moment, Ariadne almost wonders if he's going to let Carla go for the sake of his own reputation, but then, with a great deal of effort clear in the sharp lines of his face, he half turns to his daughter.

"Do you remember when you were five and you insisted that I tell you a story every night before you went to bed?"

Carla frowns. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Everything," Antonelli replies softly. "I remember one night I had to work. It happened sometimes and usually I could bribe you with candy or a new toy. But that night you wouldn't stop crying and running after me until I had to lock you in your room. I should have known then."

The blood drains from Ariadne's face as she realizes what is coming next. Lately, her mind has been so full of the bitter revelations and disappoints of someone else's life that she would give anything to look away, but she can't without lowering her aim. The best she can do is to avert her eyes and stare intently at the flowered pattern of Carla's dress.

"It was New Year's Eve. I had to drive all the way from Florence to Paris in the snow, and then all the way back before anyone realized what had happened." He stops and looks down at his hands and patent leather shoes, at the warm red bricks on the ground and the faint traces of some long forgotten stain, anywhere but at his daughter.

Carla's breathing is quick and shallow. "What happened?"

"I orphaned Mi-"Antonelli's voice dies in a soft, strangling sound. "Your fiancé."

Ariadne stares harder at the large, yellow sunflowers, fluttering lightly in the breeze, struggling not to listen. Still, curiosity gets the better of her, as it always has and always will.

"I don't understand," Carla says slowly, and her voice sounds as if it's coming from much further away than the two metres that separates them. "Why?"

Antonelli laughs, a forced and hollow sound that grates against Ariadne's ears. "You know why. I wanted something and they were in the way."

"So you just killed them?" The flower in Ariadne's vision trembles and she looks up involuntarily at Carla's face. Her skin is as pale as her father's, with the exception of two twin spots of angry red spreading out slowly but steadily from her cheeks. A spark of some unnamed emotion flashes in her eyes.

"If I'd known then that you'd want to marry him," Antonelli murmurs, "it would have been different."

"Why, you would have killed him too?" Carla demands ruthlessly. Antonelli recoils like he's been slapped, but she seems unable to stop the questions tumbling out one after the other. "Is that why you hired all those extractors? To finish off the job?"

Antonelli runs a hand over his face. "I've told you so many times, Carla, but you always refuse to believe me. It was to keep you safe. I was terrified that he knew, that he remembered me from that night, and that he was only marrying you to get back at me. I didn't want to have to bury my own daughter, so I hired all those extractors to find out if he knew. To find out if he was planning some kind of revenge. I had to be certain he would take care of you after I die."

He turns suddenly to Ariadne, who takes a reflexive step back at the abrupt change. "There, you know now. My big secret." He spreads his hands wide and for the first time since she's met him, she notices that they are vibrating visibly. "The founder of the world's largest pharmaceutical company, and there's no medicine in the world that could cure me," he mutters bitterly.

A wave of pity, however undeserved or misplaced it may be, crashes over Ariadne and leaves her stinging from the salinity. Even Carla's furious expression of disgust softens ever so slightly so that the words pouring from between her lips lose some of their edge. Some but not all.

"You deserve it."

Her father's face tightens in pain. "I don't want to live forever" he murmurs to the void between them. "All I want is to die with some dignity."

"And Michel's parents?" Carla asks. Her voice trembles under the presence of a dozen pent up emotions threatening to spill over into the dream. "Didn't they deserve some dignity too?"

A beat while Antonelli struggles to defend an answer that he clearly no longer believes. "It was quick. They wouldn't have felt any pain."

"Speed doesn't equate dignity," Carla laughs derisively. Against the dark outlines of her eyes, Ariadne can plainly see pools of unshed tears gathering ever deeper. The glamorous heir, mascot for the perfect life, is minutes – seconds – from snapping.

Antonelli flushes under her mockery. "You think I don't regret what I did? I would give anything to turn back time and make everything right. But who's to say that it will fix anything? Your fiancé's entire life has been shaped by his parent's death-"

"Don't you dare-"

"If they'd never died-"

"You don't know anything-"

"Would you still be in love?"

Carla catches her breath and steals Ariadne's with it. The twin spots on her cheeks flare out over the entirety of her face, her body, her hair, a flaming, bleeding cocoon of fear and heartbreak masked in anger. "Michel is a hundred times the man you'll ever be," she spits out coldly. "Don't flatter yourself into thinking you've ever had any control over him. He barely even remembers his parents."

"That's not true."

Ariadne is as surprised as anyone to hear her own voice in the echoing silence of the suspended city around them. The words claw her throat raw on their way up, the very reason that she'd had to run from Antonelli in the first place.

"When we were in his mind, there was a part of him that remembered. He's kept it trapped in his subconscious, but it's there."

"Does he-"

Her gaze flickers to Antonelli. "He doesn't know who it was."

That one simple sentence knocks down every last one of his carefully erected barricades. His body falls limp as a punctured balloon and he sinks, shaking madly, into a chair.

"Thank God," he murmurs into his hands. "When you didn't show up after the extraction, I thought-"

He breaks off into a long, shuddering breath laced with the undercurrents of a sob that sends tremors rippling across his shoulders. Unable to bear watching any longer, Ariadne turns away before her heart can amass enough ammunition to overpower her mind and lower the gun still trained on Carla. What she needs are facts; logic and reasoning that will override her emotional autopilot and maybe, just maybe, bring some sense back into this _thing._

"So now you know about the Frechette job," she says, speaking to Antonelli with her eyes fixed on his daughter. "Tell me about Caligiuri."

He doesn't look up from his hands. "I've known Luke Caligiuri for over twenty years," he tells her with the same monotony as a recitation of the periodic table might incur. "When he invited Carla and I to his estate just a day after you failed to deliver on the job, I guessed that he might be after an extraction himself. So I played along."

"You _played-_"

"I've worked both with and against him," Antonelli ploughs on in the same tone of quiet indifference. "He's an excellent businessman but he's afraid of getting his hands dirty. I hoped – I _prayed_ – that once he learned I'd killed the Frechettes, he would use my dreams to get rid of me."

"You knew?" Carla's long fingers curl themselves viciously around empty air. "You knew that all this was going to happen, and you still came?"

"I hoped," he corrects.

"Why?"

Antonelli slowly raises his head from his hands to looks at his daughter. "Don't you see?" he murmurs, more to himself than to her. "This"– he waves an arm at the frozen world around them – "This is the cure I've been looking for. Dreams, limbo, whatever you want to call it. Look at me. I'm healthy. I've only got three months left up there, three months of hospitals and tests and painkillers. But down here…who knows?"

"And what about me?" Carla whispers. In the dim silence, her fragile voice reminds Ariadne of a child, of gangly, wild-eyed Jean, stumbling in the maze of Frechette's subconscious, desperate for freedom and an acknowledgement of the truth. And she wonders how they, Carla and Frechette, could ever have helped themselves from falling in love.

The warm glow of hope in Antonelli's eyes fades to darkness. "I never meant for you to be involved. If I'd known…"

"You would have done the same," Carla finishes bitterly. In her dry eyes, Ariadne can read the familiar lights and shadows of a frugal hope resigned to disappointment. "It was always about you, always. Everything that you've done, everything that you're doing now. So don't pretend that this would have been any different if you'd known."

"Carla-"

A sudden dissonant burst of music erupts from the sky, cutting him off. For a moment, Ariadne stands frozen in place, so unexpected is the alarm that she forgets what it even means.

_Rien de rien._

But even if she does not remember, Antonelli seems to understand, and in that fraction of a second, he stands up with the abrupt jerkiness of an automaton in desperate need of oiling.

"Please…"

_Je ne regrette rien._

She could stop all this right now. Just a twitch of her trigger finger is all any of them need. She could be safe.

_Ni le bien__ qu'on ma fait. _

Antonelli could be well. Caligiuri could be happy. Carla-

She would be lost. _Might_ be lost. There would always be that spark of hope and undying optimism that she would break through the water to the surface.

_Ni le mal._

Antonelli is half pleading, half reasoning with the knot of stubbornness buried deep in Ariadne that refuses to shoot. She barely hears the mumbled words of desperation streaming from his lips. Bile rises up the back of her throat. Time is ticking towards them until the kick arrives. Until the dream shatters. Until reality comes flooding back. Until the only things left to her are ripped from her fingertips.

Dreams.

Creation.

Arthur.

That's all it really comes down to, in the end, with only brick walls and armoured tanks facing her. She's heartless and selfish and cruel and a million other guilty pinpricks but what she wants, she always finds a way to get, and she has never wanted anything more in her life.

_Tout ça m'est bien égal. _

She will never be quite certain as to when and how it happens. One moment Carla is on her feet and breathing and the next she's on the ground, drowning in a pool of shining scarlet and Antonelli is there beside her, uselessly stemming her blood with his hands.

"Carla...Wake up…_Carla…"_

When he realizes how futile it is, he looks up at Ariadne with a dull, glowing hatred that blazes against her skin.

"She had nothing to do with this. _Nothing. _You could have let her go. She doesn't deserve-"

His words break and Ariadne almost regrets it. Then she remembers Caligiuri watching safely from behind a shield of bulletproof glass, waiting for a reason to pull his own trigger. Arthur and Eames, dangling up in the air, waiting for her to wake up. Waiting for Carla and Antonelli to die.

_Avec mes souvenir__s, j'ai allumé le feu._

Through an oddly muted haze, she hears her own forcedly detached voice.

"If you love her so much, bring her back."

* * *

The wrench of reality beckoning to her synchronizes perfectly with the recoil of the streamlined lead bullet. Momentum sends Ariadne reeling through the onion layers of her subconscious and she struggles forward in her chair, nearly ripping the catheter from her wrist. Arthur's hands are already there to steady her, warm and solid against her shaking body. Ariadne sees his questioning gaze flicker from her to Antonelli and Carla, sleeping peacefully. She turns her head so he won't see the tears, but he understands her silence better than she does herself. Wordlessly, he pulls her into his chest.

For that one breathless moment of dizzying oblivion, they are complete.

* * *

It's hard to be complete when you're bound for opposite sides of the world.

She finds this out only after her flight begins to board. Ariadne checks her pockets one last time to make sure she has everything: passport, boarding pass and enough change for a taxi home from the airport. When she turns to ask Arthur some trivial question about their flight, the words die on her lips. He's still sitting motionless on the hard, plastic seat, his briefcase and jacket lying neatly on the chair beside him. The way he looks at her with an apologetic firmness makes her feel like a small child. She cannot help the accusation in her voice, and when Arthur flinches, she receives a kind of morbid satisfaction from it that, at the same time, leaves her ashamed.

"You're not coming."

"I'm not," Arthur replies quietly. Two chairs down, Eames shifts in his seat with rather more noise than necessary.

Ariadne bites back the retort on the tip of her tongue. The last thing she needs – or wants – is to cause a scene in the middle of the airport. She has been expecting this moment to come, but there was always that small glimmering hope that it would not have to come down to this. Arthur's uncharacteristic desperation over the past few days, his careless disregard for all the work boundaries they'd established and then broken down; they are all clear to her now. They were more than a gesture of comfort or trust, but a goodbye, and if she had been any smarter, she would have held onto him beyond the semidarkness trapped behind all those locked doors. Now that they are in the light of the sun, there really is nothing more to say.

She swallows, throat dry and scratchy. "Where are you going?"

"San Fernando."

"And then…"

He says nothing. Ariadne scuffs her shoe against the well polished floor, leaving a blackened smudge behind. Eames grunts something about the washroom and sidles away in a flurry of mumbled incoherency. She pretends to be interested by the pattern of the tiles and studies it without seeing anything at all.

Arthur clears his throat and holds out his hand. There's a plain business card between his index and middle finger, a number dashed across its back in his neat handwriting. "In case you need me," he murmurs.

She takes the card gingerly, doing her best to ignore the crackle of sparks when their fingertips collide. On the front of the card is the name and number of a consultant at _Le moineau._ She shoves it deep into her pocket with her bishop and wishes they could go back to the wedding boutique and do it all again, and maybe this time, they would get it right.

They both know that no matter how much she needs him – she will _always_ need him – she won't call.

"This is how the job works. We can't stay together after an extraction, ever. It's too dangerous."

He does not mention Cobb, or Mal, or even Eames. Ariadne doesn't ask. She won't give him the pleasure of telling her, yet again, how different they are.

"Three months," he continues. "I'll come find you after three months, no matter where you are, and we'll figure something out then. I promise."

She can't help asking. "How do I know?"

Arthur closes his fingers tightly around her wrist. Her right one, just above the almost invisible scar that tethers her to reality. Ariadne closes her eyes and engrains the memory of his hand in her skin so that even when he's gone, she'll still have the touch of his calluses and scars on her arm.

"Just trust me."

She pulls away roughly before he can say more, terrified that she will. Above them, the P.A. buzzes on and reminds passengers to Paris, France that their flight is now boarding.

"Ariadne."

"I have to go," she says steadily, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

"Ariadne, I-"

"Please don't say it."

She does not need to hear that he is sorry – again – that he regrets this – whatever this was – that he loves her – because she most definitely does _not_ love him – or anything else that he might feel inclined to tell her. What she needs is to leave, and quickly, before all her forced stoicism abandons her. In her rush to get away, she almost forgets her jacket lying on top of Arthur's suitcase. He hands it to her and she takes it without thanking him.

How can she, when she knows that he's holding back so much more?


	27. Chapter 27

For everyone who gave me the chance to fly - thank you is not nearly enough.

This last chapter is best taken with an extra large helping of **Wake Up **by **Coheed and Cambria**. I think it defines everything about Ariadne and Arthur as I see them. You may need to repeat it several times...unless you are an insanely fast reader.

Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan. Some lines in here belong to Linkin Park and John Donne.

_- Li_

* * *

**Matryoshka****  
**_A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object _

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

The hardest part of ending is starting again.

Most of the flight back to Paris is a blur. When the flight attendant asks for her boarding pass, Ariadne hands it over, oh so calmly, while she chants _three months_ to herself, over and over again. She breaks off only long enough to whisper a silent thank you for the empty seat beside her.

Up until the very last moment, she doesn't really believe any of it is real. Her heart half expects to see Arthur strolling up to the seat next to her – why else would it be empty? Even Eames' presence would be a welcome relief to the solitude of her own company. She regrets now rushing away so quickly without saying goodbye to the forger. With one eye trained on the aisle and the other scanning the tarmac through the window, clinging to her last, finest thread of hope, she waits.

When the plane finally flares its engines and rolls off the runway, she realizes that it's only the beginning of her vigil.

* * *

By the time she's back on French soil, Ariadne is sick and tired of hoping. She hails a taxi to the nearest hotel and falls asleep, fully clothed, on top of the covers.

She does not dream.

* * *

The first few days are the worst. During the day, she avoids the claustrophobia of large crowds and at night, she wakes up at the lightest sound. At least twice a day, she picks up the phone and half dials his number, but every time her relentless pride holds her back. In the deepest, darkest corners of her daydreams, she wishes fervently that one of their targets would find her, and bring Arthur with them.

Ariadne's fear – or is it hope? – mounts to a peak when she switches on the TV three days later and sees Carla Antonelli's face plastered across the screen. The reporter, visibly excited, announces that the heiress had mysteriously cancelled her engagement to Michel Frechette. The shot switches to footage of the redhead's bodyguards warding off journalists. The camera pans briefly over a close up of her face. Ariadne immediately recognizes the hollow look in her eyes. Her trip to limbo had not been a happy one.

At the end of the week, Caligiuri still has not contacted her. Ariadne gives him up as another lost cause. More likely than not, he is satisfied with things as they are.

* * *

Sometime during the second week, her bank account suddenly overflows. She knows she should withdraw her paycheque before the police come knocking at her door, but there are no more student loans to pay off and nothing that she wants that could be bought with money. In the end, she settles on a small flat overlooking the Seine. Some of her reasoning has returned, and she realizes that she cannot spend forever eating off a room service tray. Still, she signs the deed so listlessly that the realtor spends several uncomfortable days fretting over it. Eventually, the commission soothes his nerves.

For Ariadne the flat means only one thing: escape. Caught up in a whirl of paint and wallpaper and glass topped coffee tables, she relearns how to live. There can be no question of forgetting, even if her considerable intellect had allowed it, but at least she can pack the memories away in the attic of her mind, to be brought out in the dim hours between darkness and dawn. Then, and only then, does she allow herself to curl up idly by the window of her half finished living room and _think_. Despair and hope take her by turns throughout the day and night until she is dizzy from the unending carousel ride. Yet in the greyness between them, when the morning starlight pales before the burning sun, giddy anticipation consumes her, and she counts down the days to herself.

Anything at all can happen right before the sunrise.

* * *

At two one morning, her mother calls collect from Canada and apologizes profusely for missing her graduation. Ariadne mumbles something politely distant, as is expected of her, and then settles back to count plane lights through her window while her mother chatters incessantly about their holiday plans. Some three and a half hours later, as the sun cracks over the horizon, she remembers that she has a daughter and dutifully asks Ariadne about _her_ plans. She wants to know _everything_ – did she have a job, a house, a boyfriend?

Ariadne answers the first two questions bluntly, stumbles halfway through the last one in a confused daze, and breathes a sigh of relief when her cell phone battery conveniently fizzles out. She does not attempt to reconnect the call from her landline and when the stores open later in the day, she gets a new number. When the woman at the counter enquires why, Ariadne has no answer.

* * *

She likes it best on the days it rains. On those days, she stands under the shelter of her balcony and holds out her hand to catch the tears. Then she lets them roll down into the gutter below, a drop for each step down the road to nostalgia.

She can cry only when the world cries with her.

* * *

On the first day of summer, Ariadne goes back to her old dormitory to retrieve the last of her possessions. Ailin is long gone, and with her, the familiar sense of home. A fine layer of dust lies over the room, blurring the image around the edges. She finds that, after all, she does not really want any of the things there. They belong to an Ariadne of a different time, one that was carefree and bordering on arrogance in her belief of happy endings. With half a heart, she shoves clothes and sketches haphazardly into a suitcase and manages to drag it down to the lobby.

At the bus stop, she bumps into one of her former professors. After exchanging some polite small talk, he asks her if she's interested in teaching a summer course at the university. He assures her quite firmly that her height will not disadvantage her in any way with her prospective students, who all seem to hover at six feet tall. Ariadne fully intends to turn him down, but then the thought of spending another two and a half months in her finished flat floats across her mind. Without any clear idea of what she's doing, she accepts.

* * *

Ariadne teaches on autopilot. She knows her lectures are lacklustre – it shows in her poor attendance rate – but somehow, she cannot be bothered to care. The job, after all, is only temporary. She neither enjoys teaching, nor does she need the money. It's simply there to fill in the gaps that used to be taken up by dreaming.

Only a small handful of people turn in the first project. She suspects they only do it from a compulsive need to finish homework; these are the same people who attend her classes everyday just to have the pleasure of seeing that bolded _zero_ next to the _Absences_ box on their transcript. She does not expect much from the assignment, a sketch of Paris in fifty years. She had been thinking of dice and bishops at the time. With a sigh, she pulls the thin stack of papers towards her.

That night, for the first time in what feels like ages, she forgets to watch for the break between night and day, too busy sprawled out on her paper covered floor with one piece of charcoal in her hand and another tucked behind her ear.

* * *

Each passing day lightens the massive weight constricting her chest. There are still nights when she cannot sleep for fear of forgetting, nights when Arthur burns vividly against her skin. She cries then, sweet, cool tears that soothe the constant fire raging in her heart and bring back the taste of evergreens to her lips. The nights of calm exhaustion in between grow longer all the time, but she always wakes up the next day with guilt and shame tingling her numb fingers alive. Even then, she experiences a strange thrill of exhilaration that she knows she has no business to feel. Half of her is content to wander the empty halls of memory while the other is desperate to be alive again. Torn between the two, she spends several miserable days locked up with her own, tormented self. The little inspiration left to her fades quickly and she finds herself staring at blank pages again, willing her stagnant imagination to breathe life into the empty cities.

Until she opens her eyes one morning to suddenly find that she can breathe again.

* * *

She gets a call from Eames about a month later, the first call to her new home phone. Unused to the sound of its insistent ringing, she spills half her coffee down her jacket. Swearing loudly, she tugs it off and tosses it into a corner before running to pick up the phone, still in a foul mood.

"Hello?" she gasps into the mouthpiece.

The receiver turns Eames' voice into an odd, tinny sound, but it does nothing to mask its teasing tone of condescension.

"You sound like you're expecting someone important," he says seriously. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's just me."

For a full minute, Ariadne stares at the phone in shock. The hand cradling the receiver trembles violently. "Eames?"

"Nah, not that important. It's God, of course."

"Eames – what are you – did something happen – is Arthur-?"

The forger chuckles. "Slow down, darling. This phone card is still good for another two hours."

She swallows the long list of question and reminds herself to breathe and count to ten. "Is everything okay?" she asks finally.

"Everything's just peachy," he replies lightly. "There have been a few people tailing me, but I managed to shake them off easily. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Why are you calling then?"

"Can't a friend call to say hello? I wanted to make sure you were doing alright."

Dimly, Ariadne wonders why _Eames_ is calling her, and not Arthur. The former seems to read her thoughts through the phone.

"Arthur would love nothing more than to call you. I imagine he's losing boatloads of sleep over it."

"So why doesn't he?"

A loud rush of air on Eames' side that could be a sigh. "He's been busy. Cobol finally caught up with him."

Fear seizes Ariadne in its grip. Arthur couldn't be – no, she would not even think it. She almost chokes on her words. "Is he-"

"He's fine," Eames assures her with surprising softness. "But he's not exactly in a position to call anyone at the moment."

"When-"

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you," he cuts in. "If he says he'll find you, then he will. Arthur will follow a schedule until Armageddon, and probably beyond, too."

For a long time, neither of them speaks. Eames' words do little to comfort Ariadne, who never had much doubt that Arthur would be true to his word. What scares her more than anything else is the constant waiting and wondering of where he might be, what he might be doing, and above all, what happens _after_ the three months are up.

Finally, Eames breaks the silence.

"Don't take this too hard, Ariadne."

"I'm not," she replies automatically.

"This is just the way Arthur is-"

"-I know-"

"-the more he cares-"

"-the more careful he is," Ariadne finishes with more bitterness than she intended. More silence follows, this time decidedly frosty. She scrubs absentmindedly at a drop of coffee on the bottom hem of her shirt. The momentary joy of hearing Eames' voice is fading now. With each passing second, she wants more and more desperately to hang up. She had been so close to forgetting, the closest she would ever get, and now she's suddenly back to where she started.

"He loves you."

Her heart freezes in icy shards. "I have to go," she lies.

Eames, for some strange reason known only to him, laughs. "I won't keep you then. When you see Arthur, tell him he owes me."

The line clicks off before she can ask for what.

* * *

For days after Eames' call, Ariadne sleeps with her totem on her dresser. In the daytime, she keeps it tucked safely in her pocket. She never dreams, but there are times when she wakes up in the middle of the night and swears that she can hear his voice. Her life is slipping again, but there's little she can do. Day and night start to blend together into a murky, unpleasant grey that presses in on her from all sides, forcing her to shrink deeper and deeper into herself, until all that's left of her is a small round bundle curled beneath heavy blankets on a moonless night. No matter how much she sleeps, she cannot rid herself of the constant lethargy. The hollows beneath her eyes bruise grey and purple and her neighbours begin to give her wary looks when they pass her in the hall. She takes to leaving at the crack of dawn and returning long after sunset to avoid their accusing gazes.

Her students fare little better. Disappointed after her brief period of animation, they trickle out of the classroom one by one. The only thing Ariadne feels at the sight is thankfulness that there are still a few occupied seats. She makes no effort to reclaim the ones that she's already lost, although she does her best not to lose any more. While she hates teaching mundane facts and figures with an unrivalled passion, it's the one thing that's keeping her tethered to reality, and she's terrified of losing it.

In the moments between class and home, Ariadne watches strangers on the metro. She creates names and stories for everyone from the little ladies dwarfed by their hats of coloured straw to the sullen teenagers sporting artfully ripped jeans and headphones twice the size of their heads. Their imaginary lives dull the ache of her own just a little, enough for her to get through each day.

* * *

She opens the paper one morning to be greeted by Antonelli's name screaming up at her from every headline.

_DEATH OF AN EMPIRE_

_Late last night, Viktor Antonelli, founder and CEO of the world famous Antonelli Laboratories, died at his family home in Florence, Italy._

_While early reports vary as to the exact time and manner of his death, the consensus is that Antonelli died after a short battle with the rare Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, a rapidly progressing degenerative neurological illness with no known cure. He was just fifty-five._

_Antonelli's lawyers have remained silent as to the future of his company, but it is suspected that all of Antonelli's shares will be transferred to his daughter, Carla Antonelli, who will be the sole heir to his estates. Miss Antonelli made headlines herself earlier this month following the sudden cancellation of her three year engagement to famed architect Michel Frechette. It is unknown whether the breakup was related to Antonelli's illness, or whether his death will have an effect on the current state of the couple's relationship. Close friends of the heiress say that she was aware of her father's illness, and is, given the circumstances, coping well with his death. They ask that the press kindly respect the family's privacy while they mourn. The funeral will be private, but it has been confirmed that a public memorial will be scheduled for a later date._

_While Antonelli's immediate family may have known about the rapid decline of his health, members of his company's executive office and board of directors were caught off guard by his sudden death. An insider at Antonelli Laboratories' headquarters in Paris released a statement that, while Antonelli had appeared agitated at times and was more and more frequently absent from his office, his behaviour was attributed to his daughter's impending marriage to the godson of his biggest corporate rival, Luke Caligiuri. As a result, Antonelli's unexpected death has been accompanied by a drastic drop in share prices that is expected to plummet even further as the week progresses. A financial advisor with the Banque de France predicted-_

Ariadne closes the paper before she can read more and for the remainder of the day, she steers clear of any newspaper vendors.

* * *

Morbid as it is, Antonelli's death brings her a strange sense of freedom. The lifting of one cloud makes it easier to bear the looming thunderstorms of another, and soon Ariadne finds herself cluttering her living room with page upon page of sketches and vague blueprints. The cities in her mind grow exponentially until they crowd out the shadowy stories of subway strangers. She draws them as they come on every surface she can find, whether it be the back of her arm or the margins of a library book. Inky towers, fortified with low-rising domes and crystals, spiral every which way into the sky.

Her only regret is that they will never come to life.

* * *

Sometimes, Ariadne wonders if she shouldn't tell the truth.

With Antonelli's death, there is no one else, with the exception of Carla, who knows the real and absolute truth. And Ariadne has severe doubts that the heiress remembers anything much after her sojourn to limbo and back. Sometimes, she's curious to know what happened. Had Antonelli found enough courage to kill his own daughter, or had she come back some other way? She wonders what would happen if she were to stroll down to Antonelli Laboratories and demand an audience with its new CEO.

The memory of a gun trained at her temple usually puts a stop to these musings.

* * *

When the first two months are up, she begins to worry needlessly.

She worries that Arthur will forget, that something will prevent him from coming, that he won't want to come, that Paris will be flooded by a sudden tsunami. Her fears are entirely unfounded, she knows, but they disturb her nonetheless, usually in the dim moments just before sleep arrives. In her agitation, she buys a large calendar from the dollar store and pins it up on her bedroom ceiling. Every night, she crosses off another day, and then counts the red checkmarks until she falls into a fitful doze. And every morning, in the glaring light of the early sun, she laughs at her own foolishness and swears that she'll take it down just as soon as she gets home from school.

* * *

On a rainy Sunday afternoon, Ariadne finds it.

She's in the middle of doing laundry when she catches sight of the offending jacket, crumpled up in the corner she'd thrown it when Eames had called. She smoothes it out, wrinkles her nose at the faint odour of coffee it emits, and is about to toss it into the washing machine when something tumbles out of the inside pocket. Curious, she kneels down to pick it up and freezes with her fingertips a breath away from its surface. Her other hand reaches instinctively for the bishop in her pocket and knocks it, shaking, to the floor. They lie side by side on the carpet, just barely touching.

_In case you need me._

She knows she shouldn't. It could all be a mistake, an accident. Except that Arthur never makes mistakes.

_I'll come find you, wherever you are._

Memory tugs at her and she remembers Arthur handing her the same jacket in the airport. She can't help it.

_I promise._

Her fingers close tightly over the cool plastic.

_Trust me._

The rest of her life, delicately cupped in her palm. A pledge of trust, and perhaps something more. Not exactly everything she's ever wanted, but the promise of so much better than her dreams, tangible and real, waiting, hidden just around the corner. And she can wait, with all the time in the world, because no matter how many times they fall apart, their orbits will always find a way to collide again, interlocking curvatures in the fabric of space and time. They cannot help it any more than the compass can help returning home at the end of the circle.

_He loves you._

Dotted white against bright red, the die's weight rests comfortably in her hand.

* * *

конец

* * *

Thank you t_hank you **thank you thank you**_ to everyone who has ever read, favourited, reviewed, or otherwise contributed to this story. I adore you all, I really do. If I had any prowess at sonnet writing, I would compose one for you right now. Writing this has been somewhere along the same lines as attempting an axel for the first time. I realize that this is quite a pathetic comparison, but it's what I know, so - a googol of thanks for being that indispensible safety harness. Even now, I'm still in a kind of comatose shock.

Please review. This ending has undergone so many drafts and mood swings that it bears absolutely no resemblance to its original conception. I tried desperately to make it definitively happy, but it downright refused to cooperate, and now it terrifies me to no end. Whether you despise it or love it, please let me know. I will be eternally grateful.

**_THANK YOU._**

**P.S. **I swore up and down when I finished writing that I would leave Inception alone after this. As usual, I have been absolutely dismal at keeping my own resolutions. I don't believe in sequels to stories that were not planned as such, but I do believe in starting again from scratch. I don't have the strength of will to abandon Arthur and Ariadne altogether, so...there will be more. Just different. Hopefully it'll be up this weekend. So if you feel up to it...check back soon?

_- Li **:O)**_


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